Flowers in Skulls
by Azpidistra
Summary: --DISCONTINUED--In a small Washington town, secrets hide under the surface. Connected secrets. Secrets threatening to break. (AU, features original characters)
1. Prologue: Philosophy in Death

Author's Note: This story is NOT connected to my Phobia chronicles. This is a SEPARATE story, even if certain characters from there do make brief appearances. In no way, shape or form, are the two universes connected.  
  
In this chapter, I have taken certain liberties with history. Socrates lived in 5th Century BCE Athens, Alexander the Great lived in another time altogether, but I have combined the two times here. I do not own Methos, Socrates, or Plato. I do, however, own Fiona. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------  
  
In the Greek afternoon sunlight, Methos paused to contemplate the market's wine selection. He appeared to be Greek, except for the distinctly Roman nose. His hair was dark, and slightly longer then he preferred to wear it, his eyes hazel in the hollows of his light olive skin. He wore the standard Greek dress and sandals, a sword and change purse belted at his waist.  
  
He decided, pointing his selection to the vendor, attempting to haggle, ignoring the bemused surprise on the vendor's face at his perfect Ancient Greek. He passed some coins from his hand to the vendor's hand, and he took his purchase, stepping again into the crowded throngs of marketplace bodies and shoppers, stopping again at an olive vendor, and repeating the process.  
  
He stopped a third time, this time at a fruit stand, where the vendor proudly informed him, "We have dates for sale today. Fresh from the lands east. Shipped by King Alexander himself."  
  
"Alexander?" Methos repeated.  
  
"Do you not know, Alexander? He is the Greek Emperor, exploring the barbarian lands, in hopes to civilize them into the Greek Empire."  
  
"Of course," the Immortal frowned. "But what if the barbarians do not want to be civilized?"  
  
The vendor looked at him for several moments before he threw his had back to laugh: a sound almost like a roar. "Good jest, friend. But, surely you do not think us to live in the Bronze Age. This is Athens! This is the Golden Age! We have culture, and we live in culture. Living in fear of the apocalypse is a thing of the past, and with the future, comes civilization."  
  
"Yes, I suppose you are right," Methos mumbled, frowning slightly. "How much for those dates?"  
  
With his three purchases in hand, Methos continued through the marketplace, pausing again to buy bread, and leeks. Other than the conversations to haggle with the vendors, he started no conversations, and no one started conversations with him. But that was how he liked it.  
  
Coming to the marketplace edge, he turned sharply to the left, walking silently down a long, winding road, remembering the play he had seen the night before, and how he had left the theater dissatisfied, and wanting a beer. The young woman he encountered upon leaving the pub had been willing, and also willing to stay the entire night for a few extra gold coins. He had liked the idea of holding someone again, while he lulled himself to sleep.  
  
Pausing briefly, he turned left, stopping before a small building, of which had seen better days. He had never understood why when Socrates had the admiration and respect of everyone, he did not take advantage of that admiration and respect to live in better conditions. He sighed, raised his hand, and knocked hesitantly on the door.  
  
A young man opened the door. "Yes, may I help you?"  
  
A frown crossed Methos' face. "I am looking for Socrates. Did he leave? I'm a friend of his."  
  
"A friend, eh? You won't find him here. They arrested him last night on grounds of corruption. He's being held at the prison about four and half leagues from here. I could take you there."  
  
"Yes, yes, please. I need to speak with him."  
  
The young man titled his head slightly, casting Methos a puzzled look. "Give me a minute." He disappeared into the small building, returning several moments later, closing the door behind him. "Follow me then, please."  
  
"Thank you. I am Methos."  
  
"I am Plato. Socrates is my mentor."  
  
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Methos waited for several moments outside the cell while Plato told Socrates of his arrival. Finally, Socrates looked to his direction, and motioned him to enter. "Methos," he greeted, "I thought you would come. I had hoped you would come."  
  
"I brought wine, and I brought food." He motioned to the gifts he carried, dropping them lightly on the bench, where Socrates sat. "I am told the dates came from the Far East."  
  
"Thank you," he paused. "Have you been east, Methos?"  
  
"Yes, several times."  
  
Socrates nodded, watching the Immortal thoughtfully. "You are different."  
  
"Yes," Methos blinked.  
  
"I have long suspected. I have known you fifty years, Methos, and you do not age. I, contrary, have aged greatly. I hear what they say of me. I say that the best, the greatest love comes from the soul, but they whisper I am the ugliest man in all of Athens."  
  
"Oh, but Socrates-"  
  
"Silence, Plato. I am strong; the words do not hurt me. You have asked me to teach you, Methos. I have taught you all that I know." He paused, motioned for Methos to sit. "Plato told you I am to be killed tomorrow."  
  
"Yes, but I do not understand why."  
  
"They say I corrupted the Athenian youth. Like you, like my student," he gestured to Plato, "the youth were curious. I merely quenched their curiosity, and now they will have me killed for it. Forgetting they are the ones, who granted me the permission to teach and to mentor in the first place."  
  
"They?"  
  
"The Elders. The Athenian Governing Body." He paused again, choosing a fig, swallowing it whole. "I have lived a full life. I am not afraid to die."  
  
"No," whispered Methos, turning away. He caught Plato's discontent in the darkness.  
  
"What is your secret, Methos? Why do you remain the same, when everything around you changes?"  
  
"I change, just not physically. I am Immortal."  
  
"Immortal?"  
  
"Yes, I cannot die."  
  
"Never?"  
  
"If someone were to take my head, I could. But elsehow, no, never."  
  
"You will have to explain this Immortality to me sometimes, Methos. But first tell me, the poison I taught you last time you visited, it worked to your desired effect?"  
  
"Yes, I thank you."  
  
"Good," nodded Socrates. "It was made from hemlock. It will be what I too swallow tomorrow."  
  
"But-"  
  
"I am not afraid, Methos," he repeated. "I was always afraid that if I observed objects with my eyes and tried to comprehend them with my other senses, I might blind my soul altogether. Now, I will never know if I am correct or not. My student will have to continue my work for me. To teach the world what I could not. He is a better man than I ever was."  
  
Plato nodded briefly, stepping from the shadows to sit nearer to his mentor, to his teacher, to his friend. "I will, old mentor. I promise you."  
  
"I would like one more lesson from you to remember, old friend," Methos requested. Several moments of silence had passed, in which each had drunk a flask of wine in silent toast.  
  
"I will give one to you, but first, I have a request of you."  
  
"Should it be in my power."  
  
"I leave a daughter in this world. When I am gone, I wish for you to look after her. Keep close to her, check in every once in a while. Plato has already promised, but I want to know she will have one more friend in his world."  
  
"You have a daughter?"  
  
"Yes. Her name is Fiona. She is originally from the Britannia Isles, west and north of here. I found her when she was three. She is sixteen now."  
  
"I will do as you ask, Socrates."  
  
"Thank you, my friend. I had hoped-" He shook his head, and looked away. "Let he who moves the world, move himself first."  
  
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When the Elders administered to Socrates the hemlock, Methos was not beside him. But Plato was, and later, after Socrates had died, the younger philosopher found him, and they talked long, remembering the man they had both been fond of.  
  
Methos agreed he would stay, and for three years he did. Fiona came to them too, and Methos learned to love both her and Plato. When she was nineteen, and newly married, he left.  
  
"Will I see you again, foster-father?" she asked.  
  
"Many more times," he promised, bending to kiss her lips once. He had left while Plato slept. 


	2. Chapter One: Moving In

Author's Note: I cannot claim ownership rights to Marius, as the backstory of his character is that of the character Marius from the Broadway show Les Miserables. (In that sense, I suppose, this could be considered a crossover fic, especially since a few other characters will crossover in later chapters.) But more into that in later chapters. I do, however, still own Fiona. --------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- -------------------------------------------------------------------- ---  
  
September 2, 2001, 730 PM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
"Is that everything?"  
  
"Yes," the young woman nodded. She reached a hand to push a strand of her hair behind her ear. It was long hair, falling almost to her waist, a shade between chestnut-brown and gold-auburn. "That is everything." She paused to look around her new apartment again. She had bought it only a month before, having accepted a professor's position in the local university. In that month's time, she had quit her old job, sold her New York apartment, and moved across the country. She sighed once, looked up to her companion, and she smiled. "Did you want something to drink? I have glasses in one of these boxes, and I have been assured the faucet is in perfect working order."  
  
"Does this mean we need to find the glasses first?" he asked teasingly.  
  
"Yes," she laughed. "Of course, I do not know where to begin."  
  
"Don't bother. I'll just use my hands. See," he brought his two palms together, "instant cup."  
  
"How perfectly uncivilized," she laughed, stepping around the boxes, and into the kitchen. "How perfectly genius."  
  
"What happened to being uncivilized?" he asked, as she slipped her own cupped hands under the clear, cold flow of the water, bringing her mouth down to drink.  
  
"I was thirsty," she shrugged. "And, I'm exhausted. Unpacking the glasses can wait until morning."  
  
He smiled in her direction, tenderly touching a hand to her cheek.  
  
"Did you want to stay for dinner?" she asked, stepping away from his touch.  
  
He sighed, and he raked a hand through his thick, dark black hair. "If you ask me, of course. Do you have food?"  
  
"I'll go shopping tomorrow too. Pizza or Chinese?"  
  
He slumped again the counter, arms crossed over his chest. She caught his eyes, smiling slightly, her gaze dropping lower to note how the jeans sculpted his lower body, and he smirked. "Either, or."  
  
"Pepper and onion ok?" she asked.  
  
"Fine."  
  
She nodded, digging in her purse for several moments, before she found her cell phone. Searching a phone book she had found outside a neighboring apartment, she dialed the number to a local pizzeria, ordering the pizza, two Greek salads and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi.  
  
"It will be about thirty minutes," she informed, having disconnected the call.  
  
"Fine," he whispered, stepping behind her, looping one arm around her waist, brushing her hair away from her neck, dropping an open-mouthed kiss on her bare skin.  
  
"Marius," she breathed. "Stop. . ."  
  
He paused, only for her to bring her left arm around his neck, bending her head back, bringing his mouth down to hers. Keeping his lips forged to hers, he spun her around, bringing both hands to her waist, pulling her body closer to his.  
  
"Fiona," he whispered against her mouth.  
  
"Shh, don't. . ."  
  
She looped her other arm around his neck, clasping her hands together, resting them where his hair met his skin. Seductively, he ran a hand up, and then down her spine, and she shivered in his arms.  
  
"I don't-" she whispered, but he cut her words, moving his own mouth to respond, when her cell rang, and she pulled away.  
  
"Don't answer it," he answered savagely. He clenched his fists, in hopes the pain would ease the pain he now felt elsewhere.  
  
"I have to," but he heard her the regret in her voice, and was somewhat comforted. "Hello?" she greeted. "Oh, Bella, yes, I was going to call you. . . Yes, all moved in. No, I had an old friend help me. . . *He* was quite the *gentleman*, yes." Fiona caught his eyes, and grinned mischievously, to which he smiled back, the pain having subsided some. "No, Bella," she continued, "I do not need you to fly out here. Because I am capable of taking care of myself. I am a big girl. . . Yes, yes, I will call again soon. Ciao."  
  
She disconnected before Bella could say another word. "I am so sorry." She dropped her forehead against his chest, after a moment looking up, a hopeful expression in her green eyes. "Forgive me?"  
  
"Of course," he promised, lightly kissing her lips. "So, who's Bella?"  
  
"Someone I know in New York." She stepped away again, idly closing the phone book. "We worked in the same department at NYU. She's about forty. Looked after me. Much like a younger sister, or daughter."  
  
"Does she know you have at least two thousand years on her?"  
  
"Of course not. I look young, Marius, but I am not stupid."  
  
"I did not say you were."  
  
She cast him a reproachful glance, and he shot his lit eyes upward, nodding, to which she smiled. "No, but you suggested it, BABY."  
  
"No fair," he pouted. "I may be younger, but I am not stupid," he threw her words back. "Besides, I look older."  
  
"I would not be proud of starting-to-gray hair."  
  
"At least, it will not gray more," he mumbled.  
  
Fiona laughed, looking to him tenderly, hearing the doorbell ring. Grabbing her wallet from her purse, she stepped through the maze of boxes, opening the door to dinner.  
  
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"So, where do we sleep?"  
  
"Who said you were to sleep here?" She cast him amused glance, finding a garbage bag amidst the chaos to deposit of the empty pizza and salad containers. Of the little soda left, she stored it in the refrigerator.  
  
"I had assumed. . ."  
  
"Not tonight." She gently touched her cupped palm to his cheek, stepping onto her tiptoes to press a tender kiss to his lips. "Rain check, ok?"  
  
"Ok," he nodded, regretfully. "Can I help, before I go?"  
  
"No, not tonight. Come early tomorrow."  
  
He nodded, bent down (for at six foot two, he was nearly a foot taller than she was) to kiss her again. In his long strides, he crossed the box- littered floor, only to pause at the front door. He turned to her again. "He does not you are here, does he, Fiona?"  
  
"No, I did not tell him."  
  
He nodded again, and he closed the door behind him. Alone, Fiona glanced again at the apartment, *her* apartment, and she smiled in the knowledge. Rustling through the closest box, she found a blanket, and she pulled it around her shoulders, slumping against the wall, and falling to the wood floor. Her furniture was not to arrive until late morning tomorrow. Smiling again in the half-light, she stretched against the floor, and floated into uneasy sleep. 


	3. Chapter Two: Awakenings

September 3, 2001, 730 AM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
Still slumped against the wall, in a poor attempt to ignore the persistent knocking, Fiona moved into a sitting position, quickly scrambling to stand. Rolling her neck once to loosen the cramped muscles, she padded across the bare floor, silently cursing when she felt the aura through the door. Her sword was still packed in a box. She paused, halfway between the wall and the door, and called: "Marius?"  
  
"Who else would call on you this early?"  
  
She exhaled her relieved breath, walking the remainder of the wood floor, opening the door. Marius tossed her a crooked grin. "Did I wake you?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," she bit, blowing a piece of hair from her eyes. "However, seeing as you brought me breakfast, I'll forgive you."  
  
He handed her a coffee, stepping inside the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him. "I brought muffins too."  
  
"My hero."  
  
He flashed her a bemused glance. "So, I met your landlord coming up the stairs. What name did you sign the lease under?"  
  
"Fiona Kessler," she answered between bites of blueberry muffin.  
  
"Ah, that would explain it. He asked whom I was visiting, and I didn't know if you had used a pseudonym or not. I just sort of stammered the girl upstairs. I think he figured it out."  
  
"I hope so," she shrugged. "Did he ask for your name?"  
  
"He did. I told him Dylan Grantaire."  
  
"Your current pseudonym?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Good to know," Fiona nodded, finishing her muffin and coffee. She glanced once around the apartment, her final gaze coming to rest on the sea of boxes. She lifted her gaze to him, smiling. "I thought we would start on kitchenwares. My furniture should arrive before noon."  
  
"It is," Marius paused to sneak a glance at his watch, "eight now."  
  
"I know. Call next time. When I said early, I did not mean dawn's crack."  
  
"I'll remember that," he laughed. "Shall we start then?"  
  
"Might as well," she shrugged.  
  
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At eleven, drinking from the newly unpacked glasses, the two paused in their work for water. Fiona cut a remaining muffin in half, offering part to Marius, which he accepted gratefully.  
  
"Give any thought to calling him last night?" He leaned against the stove, having removed his faded corduroy jacket three hours before, a demi-god with curly black hair to his shoulders and light gray eyes, wearing blue jeans and a tight black tee.  
  
"Sure, but did I? No."  
  
"Fiona. . ."  
  
"I know, Marius, I know. But I only just moved here. I don't even know if he still lives here. Wait some before you push me."  
  
"When did you see him last?"  
  
"Two centuries past? It's been awhile." She shrugged, turning away. "I always knew I would see him again, after he left that first time, just didn't think I would keep meeting him eternally young." She paused, again. "Plato never quite recovered from his departure. He often told me, those three years were the best of his life."  
  
"How old were you? When you died?"  
  
Fiona looked to him, startled. One hundred sixty-six years (about) they had known one another, and their First Deaths was never a topic they had discussed. She shook her head, a certain volume of sadness in her eyes. "Twenty-four. I had been accused of adultery, and was stoned to death in the public square. Afterwards, that night, Plato found me, and dragged me home. When I came too. . . I had known of Methos' Immortality, and realized what had happened to me. Plato knew, and he realized it too. When I left Athens the next morning, Plato came too."  
  
"Where did you go?"  
  
"I wandered for a while. After Plato died, I settled in Rome for a time. That was the first re-meeting I had with Methos."  
  
"Was it good to see him again?"  
  
"In a way. But we were both different people. In some ways, we no longer recognized one another."  
  
"I know the feeling. I was twenty-seven when I first died, in the barricades. I feigned a long recovery, a two year long recovery. . . when I married Cosette, I still loved her, but I was changed. Even if she didn't know, even if I didn't know it."  
  
"I know. I was there, remember?"  
  
'Of course, you taught me." He paused, casting a shaky smile. "Did you meet him again before or after our first parting?"  
  
"We parted in eighteen forty-five?" Marius nodded. "Then, after. I saw him last sometime in the eighteen seventies. Eighteen seventy-three, seventy-four, I think?"  
  
"He left you, or you left him?"  
  
"We left each other," she blinked, frowning. "And, he disappeared. He was always very good at that. Five thousand years, I suppose he would have to be."  
  
"You love him?"  
  
"In my own way, yes. I am over twenty four hundred years old, Marius. After a few centuries, you learn to distinguish between love and love."  
  
"So, what do you feel toward me?"  
  
A quick grin lighted her face, banishing the last of the frown. "That's a topic best left unmentioned."  
  
He crossed his arms in mock indignation. "Are you saying you don't love me?"  
  
"Maybe," she teased, stepping forward to kiss him. "We should unpack some more."  
  
"We should, however, your doorbell rings."  
  
"I know, I'm not deaf. Must be the movers."  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Put the couch along that wall," Fiona instructed, gesturing to the wall she slept next to last night.  
  
"That's everything then, ma'am. Rich will just be bringing the floor-to- ceiling lamp." He glanced around the room, nodding to Rich, who left to make the last trip to and from the truck. "A lot of antiques here, ma'am. You a collector?"  
  
"It's a hobby," she shrugged. Over his head, she caught Marius' amused smirk. "I collect old books too."  
  
"No kidding, so do I," the mover grinned. "How long you been collecting? I've been at it for nearly a decade now."  
  
"Most of my life."  
  
The mover cocked his head, puzzled. "You look very young to have done it for too long."  
  
"I inherited good genes."  
  
"Must so. I'm Paul. Would it be too forward of me to ask you out?"  
  
"I would not consider you forward to do so. I'm Fiona."  
  
"Great. So, I'll give you a call some time?"  
  
"You have my number?" she asked, giving no thought to mask her surprise.  
  
"Already in our computer system," he grinned. "Rich," he turned to his partner, having returned with the lamp, "let's go."  
  
"Only you," laughed Marius, once the two men had left. "Only you."  
  
"What?" she laughed back, playfully shoving him. "Go make yourself useful? You want to sleep here tonight?" Her grin widened at his eager nod. "Then, go make the bed."  
  
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When six o'clock rolled around, half the packing was finished, and with several boxes broken down, ready to be thrown out with the next garbage- collection day, it was easier to walk around the kitchen.  
  
"You up to going out somewhere for dinner, Fiona?" called Marius from his standpoint in the living room. "As you still have no food. . ."  
  
"I'll go shopping tomorrow. Not like I can starve." She came to stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Let me shower and change first."  
  
"Sure. Mind if I follow suit? I brought extra clothes with me."  
  
Fiona, pulling her shirt over her head, sashaying into her bedroom, cast him an amused glance over her shoulder. "You'll have to wait your turn."  
  
In response, Marius shot her his own amused glance, settling himself to wait.  
  
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"So, you have someplace particular in mind?" Fiona asked, locking the door behind her. She had dressed casually: khaki pants, green polo shirt, and her unique green coat; her hair was still damp from her shower, and her sword was safely hidden.  
  
"There's a pub on the main strip of town. Joe's. Owner is a blue's musician. Good guy. Nice place too."  
  
"Ok," she nodded. "Is it far?"  
  
"Not too far, no."  
  
"Could we walk then? It's such a lovely night."  
  
"Sure," he agreed, and he loosely laced his fingers through hers. She smiled, gently squeezing his hand. 


	4. Chapter Three: Idle Conversation

September 3, 2001, 815 PM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
Joe Dawson slid the beer across the counter, contemplating the silence of the young man sitting before him. "Want to talk about it?" he asked, leaning against the counter, his chin in his palms.  
  
"Not particularly, Joe," answered the patron,  
  
"Yeah, well, if you ever do feel like talking to someone. . . I'm no Ann Landers, but I've been known to give some pretty good advice in my time."  
  
"Thanks," he acknowledged, sipping at his beer.  
  
"Sure thing, buddy. Just, uh, clear something up for me? Why exactly did you return to Seacouver? I mean, Adam is still MIA for a few more days, and I didn't think you and Duncan were all that close, after. . ."  
  
"I forgave him, Joe, I just don't want to see him." The young man downed the last half of his beer in one swallow, the slam of the glass echoing against the wood of the counter.  
  
"Right, so you are here then. . .?"  
  
The stranger raised an eyebrow. "That would be talking, Joe." He cracked a forced grin.  
  
"Yeah, so it would be."  
  
The stranger ducked his head in a noted chuckle, sliding a few dollars across the counter. "Do me a favor, ok?" He hopped off the stool. "Don't tell anyone you saw me." He waved, throwing, "I'll be in touch. See ya, Joe," over his shoulder, bumping into two entering customers.  
  
"Yeah, see ya," he mumbled. Shaking his head, he swept the empty glass from the counter, adding it to the pile in the sink. When he turned again to the bar, he found himself blinking into a wide, open smile. Recovering quickly, he thrust his hand forward. "Dylan! How are you? Haven't seen you in awhile. We miss your playing."  
  
"Been busy," Marius shrugged. "How are you?"  
  
"I'm good. Busy."  
  
Marius smiled easily. "Give it a whirl tonight maybe?"  
  
"Be my guest."  
  
"Ok, then," he paused, his smile broadening. "Oh, Joe, I'd like you to meet Fiona. Fiona, this is Joe Dawson. She just arrived from New York yesterday."  
  
"Pleasure to meet you. You visiting?"  
  
"Likewise." She accepted Joe's firm handshake, and an equally open smile split her face. "No, I moved here. Offered, and accepted a professor's position at the university."  
  
"Well, hey, good luck with that. Shame Adam's not here, or he could give you the four-one-one."  
  
"Adam?"  
  
"Adam Pierson. Also a professor. Specializes in classics and Slavic languages. Probably be around tomorrow, should you want to stop in."  
  
"Maybe I will. Thanks."  
  
"Joe," interrupted Marius, "is Mike around tonight?"  
  
"He took the night off," Joe shook his head. "But, hey, stay awhile. Find a table. I'll bring around some menus."  
  
"I like him," Fiona stated, once they seated.  
  
"Like I said, he's a good guy. You don't find many like him, mortal or Immortal. Trust me, I've looked." Fiona teasingly raised her eyebrows, and Marius, realizing her connotation, fell into laughter. "Not like that! -I still prefer women, thankyouverymuch. I only meant. . ."  
  
"I know," she assured him, patting his hand across the table, amusement still dancing in her eyes.  
  
"And, I've been married twice," he added.  
  
"I know," she repeated, biting back her laughter.  
  
"And, I've had girlfriends."  
  
"I know," she laughed, no longer trying to restrain herself. "I know."  
  
Marius suddenly grinned. "I guess you do know." He was conscious then of a third amused presence. "Uh, Joe, how long have you been standing there?"  
  
"Not too long," his voice tinged with amusement. "Here are your menus. Something to drink?"  
  
"A beer, whatever you have on tap."  
  
"Glass of cabernet?" Fiona asked.  
  
"Sure thing," confirmed Joe, disappearing for the two drinks.  
  
"I did try it with a guy once, though," Marius added thoughtfully. Fiona raised her eyebrows again. "Before I even met Cosette. Enjolras. Attended university with him, fought with him on the barricade, he died there." He turned away quickly, turning back again, a sobered expression on his face. "How about you?"  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"Ever been with another woman?"  
  
"On the occasion," shrugged Fiona, opening her menu. "Someone my age, there's not much you have not yet tried. But like you, I prefer partners of the opposite sex." She paused. "So, what's good here?"  
  
"You still a vegetarian?" To which, Fiona nodded. "You still eat fish?"  
  
"On occasion."  
  
"Try the fish and chips then."  
  
"Ok," she nodded, closing her menu. "What are you ordering?"  
  
"Mushroom Cheese Burger, I think."  
  
"You know," she grinned wryly, "that that processed meat patty was once a breathing, grass-eating cow?"  
  
"Uh-huh, and your fish once swam in some ocean. Not to mention, you used to eat meat."  
  
"Not since turn of last century," she countered, still grinning.  
  
"Touché," he smirked.  
  
"So, kids, what will it be?" asked Joe, returning with the drinks.  
  
"Fish and Chips, please," ordered Fiona, careful to hide her grin at his choice of words, noticing Marius did the same.  
  
"Mushroom Cheese Burger. No tomato."  
  
Joe nodded, disappearing again.  
  
"So," Fiona asked, sipping her wine, "how did you learn of this place?"  
  
"Oh, I noticed something in the local paper about six months ago advertising for a part-time musician. I applied, got the job, rest is history."  
  
"I didn't know you played." She paused. "What do you play?"  
  
"Well, I also learned in history, while visiting New Orleans, after we parted that first time. I play the fiddle, and the guitar."  
  
"So, play something." Marius raised his eyebrows. "I've never heard you play," she shrugged.  
  
"Ok," he nodded. "Hey, Joe, mind if I take that whirl now, off the clock?"  
  
"Go right ahead. Only Dylan?" Marius cocked his head to show he was listening. "Be gentle with those instruments."  
  
"But, of course," he laughed, and he stepped onto the stage.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"That was fun," observed Fiona, after they had wished Joe Dawson a good night, and traded the dark, smoky atmosphere of the bar for the cooler night air of outside. She laced her fingers through his. "Take a walk somewhere?"  
  
"Have anywhere in mind?"  
  
"I don't know. Is there a park somewhere close?"  
  
"There is, actually. I'll show you."  
  
"So," Marius continued, as they reached the park, strolling the tree-lined paths, coming to a bench, where they both sat, Fiona leaning against Marius' side, "what's it like in New York these days?"  
  
"You've been to New York, haven't you?"  
  
"Not since the Industrial Revolution," he shrugged.  
  
"You haven't missed much. Still busy, still chaotic, still a frantic hurry of days." A playful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "No city in the world is quite like New York."  
  
"Do you miss it?"  
  
"I only just left. . . but, maybe, I do. I miss my friends there, yes."  
  
"Bella?"  
  
"Yes, I miss Bella," she smiled in the darkness. "She drove me to the airport upon my departure, hugging me tightly, making me promise I would eat right. She would probably have a heart attack if she knew the fat and oil content tonight's dinner contained."  
  
"Not like it can kill you."  
  
"But she doesn't know that." She paused. "But I miss the others too. I had a base there. In my small circle, I knew three other club members. Every Saturday afternoon, we would meet. Not like we had to, but we wanted to, to keep in touch with something we would otherwise lose. To remind who we were, and not who we had to be."  
  
"Only three others?" Marius teased.  
  
"Only three. Rachel sometimes joined us, but, technically, she was not a card carrying member, but she had been raised by one. She must be about sixty now. Sweet woman. Technically, she was not the youngest either."  
  
"No?"  
  
"No, Nick's only been so for two years now. He was twenty-nine. Then."  
  
"Fiona?" Marius tightened his arm around her shoulders, idly reaching for her hand across her chest, loosely lacing his fingers with hers. "Ever wonder what life would have been like had we not Lived?"  
  
"Sometimes." She paused, letting the breath rise, then fall, through her lungs, conscious of the moment. "I have seen civilizations rise, only to fall. I have watched friends, lovers, and husbands grow old, and die. I have lost friends, and I have killed for I can remain alive. We do not have an easy existence, Marius."  
  
"I think I remember this same speech from when we first met, and you deemed yourself my mentor," he teased lightly.  
  
In the darkness, she smiled again. "Probably. I've given it to all my students."  
  
"How many have you had?"  
  
"Five?" she shrugged, aware of the movement, and how her shoulders rolled against Marius' chest. "Most I have lost contact with."  
  
"Most?"  
  
"Four of the five," she grinned, tilting her head back to kiss his lips lightly. "I am told I keep better track of my former husbands, than I do of my former students."  
  
"And, how many times have you married?" he laughed.  
  
"Eight," she shrugged again. "You?"  
  
"Only twice. Cosette, and a young woman I knew in 1930s Paris. Funny, isn't it? Both women were French."  
  
"You are consistent in your tastes."  
  
"I guess, except you are Greek."  
  
"Only in location. I was not born in Athens. Besides, we are definitely not married, and technically, we are together either."  
  
"No, we're not," he agreed, tightening his fingers through hers, to which she squeezed his hand, smiling lightly.  
  
"Do you ever wonder?"  
  
"Sometimes. Seeing my world die on the barricade. . . for months, I wished too I had died. I had told you, for two years I feigned recovery, somehow knowing I needed to, that if I had walked away unscratched when I *was* shot would be dangerous. But I didn't know what I was, who I am, until you came, told me, and taught me. Cosette was always very patient. I wish I had the chance to tell her."  
  
"How long did you have with her?"  
  
"Only ten years. She was barely twenty-eight when she died." He paused. "Had you left already?"  
  
"No, I remember the funeral. But you married her before I met you."  
  
"I married her in eighteen thirty-four. We met in thirty-six?"  
  
"Yes, and I left in forty-five."  
  
"Why did you leave?"  
  
"It was a good time to move on. You were ready to live on your own, Marius. You were a good fighter. You *are* a good fighter." She paused. "Besides, I told you from the beginning, my track record for staying long periods has never been very good."  
  
"Do you blame him?"  
  
"Only in part." She paused, again. "We both had lives to live, Marius. It is not good for the student to stay with a mentor for too long. They become too attached."  
  
"The student or the mentor?"  
  
"Both," she frowned.  
  
"It grows late," Marius sighed. "We still need to walk to your apartment."  
  
Fiona nodded, standing. Marius stood, stretching, his arms extended behind his back, Fiona watching him, a complacent expression written on her face. He offered her his hand, and she took it, no questions asked, no words said, walking back to her apartment in complete silence.  
  
He spent the night in her bed, but the sex held more urgency than tenderness. Kissing her once at her temples, she already asleep in his arms, Marius sighed, fell back against the pillow, sleep a long time coming. 


	5. Chapter Four: First Morning

Author's Note: Due to this fic covering more time than I normally pursue, I will be skipping a day or two here or there. But, you may have noticed the day will always be noted in the beginning of each chapter, so hopefully no one will be confused.  
  
I cannot technically call ownership to the character Richard Kramer. For while the name is my own, the character himself is based upon the history of the character Rick Phillips from the short-lived Disney show "So Weird". His history will play an integral part in later chapters.  
  
I also do not own Adam Pierson/Methos. I do, however, still own Fiona.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----  
  
September 4, 2001, 630 AM (to roughly 1 PM), Seacouver, Washington  
  
Fiona had set her alarm for six-thirty, designed to play the 1812 Overture. The instrumental music held some sentimental memories for her, and still a visitor to that hazy location between thought and dream when the alarm first plays, she liked the idea of waking to more pleasant memories. Rather than to the shrill beep.  
  
Mumbling in her half-conscious state, she reached an arm to silence the music, settling in for nine more minutes. Between the last unpacking, food shopping, and other necessary tasks, it had been after midnight before she had finally fallen asleep. Marius had been around for most of the day, but after they had breaked for dinner, she had forced him out, explaining she needed to spend a night by herself. Understanding, he had simply kissed her good night, and he had left.  
  
When the music shook her ears for the second time, she grumbled a few choice words under her breath (in a language no modern-world mortal would recognize), dragged herself from bed, and silenced the alarm again, this time permanently. Stumbling across the floor, she found her way to the kitchen, where she poured herself a coffee, and felt consciousness seep through her as the hot, black liquid slipped down her throat, and into her brain and bloodstream.  
  
Half hour later, seven AM, dressed in an old pair of sweats, short sleeve tee and a hooded sweatshirt from her more recent university days, she jogged to the park she and Marius had been to two nights before, and proceeded to jog the walking paths for forty-five more minutes. Jogging back to her apartment, she estimated she had jogged about five and half miles. Five after eight, she stepped under the shower stream. Half past eight, she was dressed, her hair was still little damp, and she found a breakfast bar in her newly-stocked cupboard. Grabbing her coat, and her other belongings, (including her keys, and her sword, which she carefully hid), she scurried to her car, waving to a neighbor as she pulled from the parking lot, munching the breakfast bar as she drove.  
  
She arrived at University of Washington, Seacouver fifteen minutes later. She pulled her coat on, and with papers and folders in hand, her purse tossed casually over her shoulder, she locked the car behind her, and made her way into the main campus building.  
  
"Morning," she greeted the office receptionist. "I have a nine AM appointment with Dr. Richard Kramer. I'm a few minutes early."  
  
"Of course. You must be our new professor. I'm Rebecca Wells. Fiona Kessler, is it?"  
  
"Yes," she smiled, shifting her belongings from her right hand to her left, to shake the woman's extended hand. "Is Dr. Kramer in his office?"  
  
"He is. Go right in."  
  
Rebecca Wells returned to her work, a thick pile of documents on the desk before her. Pausing briefly before the office door, Fiona raised her hand to knock, and through the wood, she heard the response: "Come in."  
  
With some difficulty, she turned the latch under the hand, and stepped into the messy office. "Dr. Kramer? I'm Fiona Kessler. We had agreed to meet today?"  
  
"Of course, of course. Please come in. Have a seat." He motioned to an empty chair, and Fiona situated herself in it, dropping the papers on the floor next to her feet. "A pleasure to have you join our department. I trust you tied things with your last job smoothly?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Please, call me Richard. We are all adults here. Fiona, right? Do you prefer Doctor or Professor?"  
  
"Professor, please. Whenever I hear the word doctor, I think someone is speaking to my father."  
  
"Hmm, well, yes," he laughed. "So, you'll be teaching philosophy and classics with us, is that it?"  
  
"That is correct."  
  
Richard Kramer nodded, leaning back in his chair, glancing briefly to the open window view his office had. "You know, my daughter was named Fiona. You, actually look a little like her. Must be the long hair." He paused, turning back to Fiona. "She would be nineteen now. A sophomore in college."  
  
"I am sorry for your loss," she responded, her voice slightly clipped, unsure how she should respond.  
  
"Don't be," he smiled. "My daughter, and my son, for that matter, are still alive. If anything, it is the other way around, and I am the one who is an interloper." He paused again, his smile fading to an empty glint in his eyes. "Shall we? I wanted to introduce you to some of the other department faculty."  
  
"Lead the way," smiled Fiona, standing. She wondered at his odd statement.  
  
"So, do you teach?" she asked several moments later, Richard leading the way down a short corridor. She had already met three professors (two men, and one other woman, all who taught more classic studies than philosophy).  
  
"Yes. I specialize in medieval philosophy. You will find that most of our department is better acquainted with the later, more modern philosophy, which is why we were thrilled to learn you knew the ancients. If you don't mind me asking, how did you first get interested in the field?"  
  
"Oh, you might say I grew up around it," she smiled, and Richard smiled as well. "My father was very into the Ancient Greek philosophers," she added.  
  
"I see. Well, we are glad," he responded, returning the smile, pausing in his step. "Here we are. Professor Pierson's office. He was a post- graduate student here a few years back, and after he completed his doctorate, he agreed to stay on to teach. Very dedicated to his work. I think you will like him."  
  
Richard knocked on the door, and Fiona shuffled her feet behind him. She had felt a tell-tale buzz through the door, and knew she could not brandish a sword in such open territory. She mouthed a silent prayer to the Goddess that Adam Pierson was a friendly, and young, Immortal, who would have no interest in her head.  
  
She had not taken a head in over fifty years, and she preferred to keep it that way.  
  
"Ah, Adam, good you are in," Richard greeted, poking his head through the door. He brushed the tense look behind Adam's yes as nothing more than pre- morning class stress. "I have a new professor here, who I wanted you to meet."  
  
"Close the door behind you," he grumbled, still bent over the paperwork, his hands clenching the pen tightly.  
  
Richard glanced back to Fiona, and motioned for her to step inside. He did as Adam had requested, and closed the door behind him. "Fiona, please meet Professor Adam Pierson. Adam, this is Fiona Kessler. She just joined us from New York University."  
  
Fiona grew a sharp intake of breath. She would have recognized that face anywhere, but for appearance, she stepped pleasantly forward, and shook Adam's limp handshake. She knew from the shadow of surprise on his face, that he recognized her as well.  
  
"Well, I will leave you too to get better acquainted. Do you know one another?" Both shook their heads. "Well, I have a ten meeting with the university president to discuss some expansion within the department. Adam, show Fiona to her room, will you?"  
  
"Of course, Richard," he responded, but the door had already closed behind the older professor. "Fiona," he paused, allowing himself to gather his thoughts, "how are you? It's been a long time?"  
  
"A very long time," she agreed. She shrugged. "I've been good. How about you?"  
  
"Oh, you know me," he smiled, "but, I've been good."  
  
"Good," she nodded, looking around the room. "So, you teach now?"  
  
"Yes. I do not like the early mornings, but I find the student progress rewarding. How about you? I mean, you are also teaching."  
  
"Yes," she nodded again. "I started four years ago." She shrugged, sitting in one of the chairs, her papers and folders resting in her lap. "So. . ."  
  
"So," he repeated. "Ancient Greek Philosophy, right?"  
  
"Yes, concentrating on Plato."  
  
"I would have thought you would teach Socrates."  
  
"No, I was too young to understand him. Besides, I preferred the style Plato used more."  
  
"Ahhh. . . How was -how was Plato, after I-"  
  
"He missed you," she shrugged. "He missed you very much."  
  
"Did you miss me, Fiona?" His voice was steady, but Fiona thought she caught something like hope in his eyes.  
  
"I hated you for a long time after you left, Methos. On some level, I still hate you." She paused, and looked away. "Every time we have met since, I have wanted to kill you, but every time, something stopped me." She paused again. "I suppose, it is because, I did miss you, to some extent."  
  
"So, that explains your little stunt last time we met?" He grinned, and Fiona grinned back, shrugging her shoulders. For a moment, they both looked very young. Methos sighed, and glanced to the clock mounted to the wall, behind his head. "What time did you say your first class was?"  
  
"I didn't, but it is eleven."  
  
"I should show you to the classroom then. It is nearly eleven now."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------  
  
Fiona sighed into her cell phone. "Yes, Marius, that is what I said. . . I have no clue. Not like I have a choice, I will be working with him. . . Because we work in the same department!. . . I don't know, maybe. But even if he did know, I doubt he would tell us. That is not exactly information people like announced. . . I don't know, ok?" Fiona sighed again. After Methos had showed her to her to the room for her first class, she had called Marius, in hopes he might lift her spirits, but all he had succeeded in doing was making her more frustrated. "Look, I'll talk to you later. . . Because I have students starting to file into the classroom, and last they need to know is that their new professor is crazy. . . You too. Bye."  
  
Cursing silently under her breath, she disconnected the call, (before he could say anything else), and dropped her cell phone into her purse. Ten students were already in the room seated, dispersed into three groups, talking amongst themselves. She knew from the roster that she had eleven students, and she decided to wait a few more minutes, seeing if the last student would show. Still frustrated, she shuffled the papers on the desk.  
  
"Good morning," she greeted some few minutes later, her last student having slipped in. "I am your professor. For those of who you have signed up for this class thinking you would have Professor Celovsky, I am sorry to inform you he will not be teaching this semester. I will be teaching this class instead. I am Professor Kessler," she paused to take a short stack of index cards from her desk. "I will be passing around index cards, on which, I want you to write your name, local address, phone number -home or cell is fine -email, and also your major. If you are undecided at this time, please write that, along with any subject you think you may want to study. Any questions so far?"  
  
"Good," she nodded, when no students raised their hands or spoke, and handing the index cards, to a student in the first row. "Now, let's see about attendance. I apologize in advance if I mispronounce your name. And, also, if you have a nickname you would prefer, please let me know." She paused, looking to the first name on her list. "Cassidy, Brian."  
  
"Here."  
  
"Evans, Frederick."  
  
"Here. Fred, please."  
  
She nodded, making a note on her list. "Evers, Cassandra."  
  
"Cassie, please."  
  
She made another note. "Kane, Frida."  
  
"Present."  
  
"Mathison, David."  
  
"Present."  
  
"Mason, Michael."  
  
"Hi," he waved.  
  
"Mayer, Serena."  
  
"Here. Call me Ren."  
  
"Myers, Timothy," she called, making the note next to Serena's name.  
  
"Here."  
  
"Nicholson, Daniel."  
  
"Hello," he also waved.  
  
"Sanderson, Amelia."  
  
"Ami, please?"  
  
"And, finally, Zuckerman, Nathaniel?" She called, noting Amelia's nickname.  
  
"Nate," he corrected.  
  
"Very well," she noted, setting the roster aside. "Now, if you are finished filling those cards, pass them back to the first row, so I can collect them. You will notice I also have a syllabus here for you, which I am now also passing to you." She did the trade, index card for the four stapled pages, and gave the students some time to glance over the syllabus on their own. "Now," she continued, "you will notice there are three texts listed. You will only need to buy the copy of Plato's Complete Metaphysics. For both Socrates and Aristotle, I will be photocopying the pages for you. On that note, you are required to have a separate notebook specific for this class, and also, I require some sort of folder or portfolio, as there will be multiple hand-outs every class."  
  
"Professor?" called a female student from the back row. "How much of Socrates and Aristotle will we be studying? I thought this class focused on Plato?"  
  
"Plato is the main focus, yes. . . I am sorry, what is your name?"  
  
"I am Frida."  
  
"Very well, Frida, you are correct. This is Plato's Metaphysics. However, I believe that to truly learn something, you must first know how that something came to be. Socrates was Plato's mentor, which is therefore, why we will be studying the earlier philosopher."  
  
"And why Aristotle?" she persisted.  
  
Fiona smiled briefly, remembering with much fondness the man she had loved as both uncle and brother for so many years, and whom she had been married to for a very short period of time. "Because Plato was his mentor, and I want you to see how Plato's teachings influenced his teachings, just as I want you to see how Socrates' teaching influenced Plato."  
  
"Did Socrates and Aristotle know one another?" asked another student, this one male.  
  
"No, they did not. Socrates died in the late 5th Century BCE. Plato did not meet Aristotle until later." She paused, adding, "Several years later. Yes?" she asked, motioning to a girl in the second row, in the second row.  
  
"Will be learning how these three philosophers' teachings influenced the modern western world's philosophers? And, I am Ami."  
  
"Towards the very end, Ami. But yes, we will be." She glanced around the room, seeing no more hands raised, she continued, "This class will contain a lot of reading, and a lot of note-taking. I assign three papers over the course of the semester, which together is equal to seventy percent of your grade. Your midterm and your final will count to twenty-five percent, and the remaining five percent will be based on attendance, class participation, homework, and occasional quizzes. Those quizzes will be surprise quizzes, so I recommend you keep ahead with your reading. Any questions so far?" She scanned the room, nodding to the mutual shaking of heads, giving herself a minute to catch her breath. "I expect you will find this to be a difficult class, but I also hope you will find it rewarding. Now, as you do not yet have the books, I will not lecture today. However, on Thursday, when we see one another next, I expect you to be prepared for a lecture. On your way out, please get your homework from me. Dismissed."  
  
She perched herself on the edge of the desk, as a few students came forward to ask more questions before leaving. Seeing the last student have left, she rummaged through her bag, coming up with a water bottle, from which she sipped long. The loud echo of the knock at the door startled her. "Oh! Dr. Kramer, you scared me!"  
  
"I told you to call me Richard," he smiled, "and I apologize for that. I had just come by to see how your first class went?" He peered into the empty classroom. "Does it not meet until one-thirty?"  
  
"Yes," she confirmed, "But I dismissed them early, seeing as I cannot start to cover material they do not yet have any basis for. Is that so foreign here?"  
  
"No, I suppose not. I am glad it started well for you. Did you have another class?"  
  
"At two," she nodded, dropping the water bottle into her bag again. "I had hoped I might see my office, start to get settled?"  
  
"Of course!" he nodded. "I forgot to show you there earlier, didn't I?"  
  
"You did," she smiled, gathering her things, and following him out, back down a series of short corridors and stairways. "Dr. Kram -Richard, I'm sorry. . ." He waved his hand to show he did not mind the slip. "You mentioned before that I reminded you of your daughter?"  
  
"So I did."  
  
"You also mentioned that you were the interloper, and not them. If you do not mind me asking, what did you mean?"  
  
Richard paused, one hand moving to rest on the wall, the other clenched at his side; he did not look to Fiona, and his voice had suddenly turned cold. "Some things are best left undiscussed, *Professor* Kessler. This way, please."  
  
She nodded once, knowing he was not facing her, and could not see the movement, following him silently. When they came to her office, he paused briefly in her doorway, adding, "You will find a copy of class's schedules on your desk. If you have any problems, please ask anyone in the department. You will find we are pleasant enough bunch," before he disappeared, shutting the door firmly behind him. Fiona sighed, and collapsed in the chair behind her desk. 


	6. Chapter Five: Drink with the Devil

September 4, 2001, 7 PM (to roughly 1130 PM), Seacouver, Washington  
  
Fiona mumbled a greeting, when the knock echoed on her office door somewhere close to seven. Her two o' clock class had not gone nearly so well. It had been an introductory philosophy and logic class, with close to thirty students. Mostly freshmen, with half a dozen sophomores mixed in, she had feeling most of the students were only in the class to fulfill the all-school ethics requirement. She already wondered, knowing the class met for an hour five days a week, just how many students would show up for every class, and how many students would make it to the end of the semester.  
  
"Come in," she repeated, this time louder. She glanced up in time to see the door creak open, and a male presence slide in. "Oh, hello."  
  
"Hello," echoed Richard Kramer. "Just thought I would stop in to say good night before leaving. How'd the first day go? Smoothly, I hope."  
  
"Very much so," she confirmed, nodding her head for extra emphasis, hoping he did not see the wary spark in her eyes.  
  
"Good. See you tomorrow morning then. Good night, Fiona." Apparently he hadn't, closing the door behind him.  
  
Fiona sighed, and returned to her work. She had thought to save some time tonight, and draw her notes for tomorrow's lectures, but found it to be more work than she had wanted. Dropping the pencil, she passed a hand over her eyes.  
  
"I need a drink," she murmured. Deciding she had had enough for her first day, she shuffled her papers into an orderly pile, and pulled on her coat. She was startled by the second knock on her door, more startled when the Immortal aura hit her senses through the door. "Come in," she called cautiously, her hand hovering over the right side of her coat.  
  
"I forgot you were left-handed," greeted Methos, shuffling just inside the door, and closing it behind him. "Is that where you hide your sword these days?"  
  
"Wouldn't you love to know?" she smirked. A quick, warning look flashed over her eyes, and she dropped her hand to her side again. "Did you want something?"  
  
"Actually, yes. I was going for a beer, and wanted to know if you would care to join me? Thought we could play at happy families, and reacquaint ourselves with one another."  
  
"Do you read minds now too?" she mumbled to herself, while out loud, she added, "I thought Adam Pierson already said he did not know me?" She raised her eyebrows challengingly, daring him to answer her.  
  
"Adam Pierson is not the one asking. Methos is asking, however. They do not know who I am, but you do. And, it has been almost two centuries since I last saw you."  
  
"Are you sure you want to take a chance? After all, you said yourself, last time we met, I purposely left you to die."  
  
"I'm offering, aren't I?" he asked. He leaned against the closed office door, arms crossed over his chest, eyes somewhere between weariness and hopefulness.  
  
"Fine, but give me a minute. I need to call someone first."  
  
"I'll meet you outside," Methos nodded, opening the door, closing it again behind him. Fiona nodded, sighed, and ran a hand through her long hair.  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Methos stepped in the smoky bar, waving sheepishly to the bartender. "Hey, Joe. Been awhile."  
  
"Adam, hey! Was wondering if I would see you this week. How was your trip?"  
  
"Fine, got a lot of work done." Methos motioned to Fiona, who stood slightly to his right. "Have you met Fiona? She just started working at the university here."  
  
"Sure, we met the other night." He turned quizzically to her. "You were here with Dylan, right?"  
  
"Right," she nodded.  
  
"Well, glad to have you back." Joe paused. "You two know one another then?"  
  
"Just met today," responded Adam, ignoring the look Joe gave to him. "Richard Kramer brought her by my office this morning. Found we have some stuff in common."  
  
Joe glanced to Fiona, who simply shrugged, offering a joking smile, and he did not know if she agreed or disagreed with they story given. But Joe Dawson had not served over two decades in the Watchers Organization without learning something of human nature. He knew when he was being lied to, and he knew how to read into people's words and emotions. He could usually read into Adam Pierson, (after all he had known Adam Pierson since nineteen eighty-four), even if he could not read into Methos.  
  
But he did not know Fiona; he could read only a little into her. They had only met once, or twice, now. But something in the two expressions, something in the tone of their words, and something in her smile, made him think there was an underlying layer there, something they did not want to share.  
  
He frowned slightly, in took his breath, and released it, and spoke: "What will it be then?"  
  
"A beer," answered Methos, taking his usual place at his usual stool.  
  
"Same," Fiona added. She perched herself on the stool next to his.  
  
"Coming right up."  
  
"So, nice coat," Methos smirked, speaking not directly to her, but to Joe's turned back.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Uneasy silence having fallen, when Joe slid the two beers to them, and Fiona slid a couple dollars to him, Joe laughed, teasing, "Oh, look! A *paying* customer."  
  
"Shut up, old man," but a smile quirked at the corners of his mouth.  
  
"In the several years I have known Adam, he had never once paid for a beer. If I calculated his debt, it would exceed the national debt. Hell, it would probably exceed the international debt," he answered in response to Fiona's puzzled look.  
  
"Shut up, old man," Methos repeated, a full-blown smile on his face. From the corners of his eyes, he noticed Fiona grinning. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be Dawson? Figuring out paychecks or something?"  
  
Joe raised his eyebrows. "Giving me a hint, Pierson? I can take it. Just remember, who puts up with you. Because it sure ain't been Mac recently." He grabbed his cane, and limped across the bar to where his small back office was. His hand on the doorknob, he turned, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Try not to do too much mischief while I'm gone. I just finally got the place back to normal from the last time."  
  
"Who's Mac?" asked Fiona, the door closing behind Joe echoing throughout the bar.  
  
"Duncan MacLeod. He's a friend." His voice suddenly sounded forced, and when Fiona looked over to him, she was surprised to see how tightly his fingers gripped the beer mug. "So," he continued, his voice now lighter again, "how do you like Seacouver so far?"  
  
"Definitely different from New York. Reminds me some of home."  
  
"Greece?"  
  
"No," she shook her head. "Britannia Isles. Ireland. All the greenery, and the climate, I suppose. Sometimes, I almost expect to see the Giant's Dance when I look out my apartment window."  
  
"Stonehenge is in England, on the Salisbury Plain."  
  
"Well, sure, now," she smirked, turning to him, her eyebrows raised, grinning. He offered her a smile in return. "Of course," she continued, "it's been years since I've been to my childhood home. Ireland or Greece."  
  
"Join the club," Methos sighed. He swallowed some of his beer. "You married? Seeing anyone?"  
  
"No, and kind of."  
  
"Kind of?"  
  
"Kind of," she repeated. "How about you?"  
  
"No, not at the moment." He swallowed more of his beer. "How was the first day?"  
  
"Fine," she shrugged. "Did you know Richard Kramer has a daughter?"  
  
"He mentioned that to you?"  
  
"Yes. Apparently, I remind him of her. From the way he talked, I had thought she had died."  
  
"No, no she is still alive. Just, I am surprised he even mentioned it to you. Richard very rarely talks of his past to anyone. He can be more secretive than we are."  
  
"A feat in itself. He refused to say more of it."  
  
"Yes. . ."  
  
Fiona sighed, sipping some more of her beer. Lightly, she jumped from the stool, and collected her bag. "Well, I've had fun, but I need to get going." Leaning in closer, she added, speaking in Ancient Greek, "If you want to speak more truthfully, here's my address," and she pressed a ripped napkin into his hand. He looked to it, only slightly surprised at the neat handwriting on it.  
  
She waved, and only when she was at the door, did Methos recover his voice, and speaking in English, did he call, "So where did you get that coat?"  
  
Fiona grinned mischievously, calling back, "Would you believe I made it from an eighteenth century dress?"  
  
The door's slam echoed throughout the bar, and Methos frowned again, staring into his beer. He brought the mug to his lips, and drained what was left. Bringing the mug down again to the counter, his fingers again gripped the glass tightly, his knuckles turning white. "Goddam, MacLeod," he whispered, "where in bloody hell are you?"  
  
Leaving his mug where it was, he slipped again into his own coat (a black trench), grabbed his keys, and he stalked from the bar. Under his touch, his car purred pleasantly to life.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------  
  
Fiona opened the door to her apartment, immediately unzipping the side zipper of her boots, wiggling her feet in the black stockings she wore. She dropped her shoes near the couch, quickly adding her coat. She carried a small stack of mail in her hands, shifting through it, noticing three of the five letters were addressed to the previous owner, and the other two were junk advertisements.  
  
She tossed the two junk advertisements into the trash bin, leaving the other three letters temporarily on the counter. She would figure out later if it was worth trying to track the addressee down, or if she should just throw the letters out.  
  
She pulled a pot from the cupboards, and found some spaghetti, letting the water come to a boil while she changed out of the skirt and blouse and into a pair of old sweatpants and a tank top. She pulled her hair back, and added the pasta to the water, alternating between stirring it, and sautéing some sauce over the low heat.  
  
She ate her dinner while watching the ten o'clock news, leaving the dishes in the sink to be washed later. Heading to her bedroom to sleep, she was only slightly surprised Marius had not stopped by, but he had said he would be working late tonight. He had promised to come tomorrow night.  
  
He had promised. 


	7. Chapter Six: The First Confrotation

September 5, 2001, 530 AM (to roughly 930 AM), Seacouver, Washington  
  
Fiona half-sat in bed, one eye open, before she mumbled incoherently (in a language other than English), and fell back against the pillows, in hopes to return to sleep-land. But no, her phone rang again, and she groped the top of the nightstand, answering the phone with a healthy dose of swears, only five of which the caller understood.  
  
"Morning to you too, darling. Did I wake you?"  
  
"Amanda?" she mumbled, flopping onto her pillows. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"  
  
"I woke you."  
  
"Yes, it is five-thirty in the morning." She paused. "Send me telephone coffee, and I'll forgive you."  
  
"Already sent," she laughed. "Just be thankful I called and not your friend Bella. She would be dead now, to know her precious Fiona knew so many swearwords."  
  
"She might have understood two," grinned Fiona. "So?"  
  
"So, I'm calling to see how you are. We miss you. We're worried about you. You said you would call, and you never did. The boys decided I would best call, get the girl talk from you, I suppose."  
  
"Girl talk, huh? You could tell them how I had a drink with the devil last night?"  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Well, not exactly the devil. But Adam Pierson, or rather, I had the drink with Adam Pierson, but Methos invited me."  
  
"I assume you know his real identity?"  
  
"Since I was sixteen. A *real* sixteen, before I died." Fiona paused again. "As naïve and eccentric as Adam Pierson is, Methos has changed very little." She shook her head, knowing Amanda could not see the movement. "He is exactly as I remember him."  
  
"When did you last see him?"  
  
"Late nineteenth century."  
  
"Some words of advice, my dear? I know Methos is unapproachable around the edges. I, myself, am guilty of almost taking his head once, and. . ."  
  
"I wish you had. Would have saved me the trouble," Fiona interrupted.  
  
"And," Amanda continued, her amusement heard in her voice, "he is lacking some social skills, but he is a good guy to know."  
  
"Are we talking about the same Methos? He leaves without saying farewells, he lives only to survive, and he distances himself from those he loves and loved, in hopes he may further protect himself."  
  
"He's changed. We all have."  
  
"Why are you defending him, Amanda? You've always called him a git before."  
  
"Because I know him, Fiona."  
  
"And I don't know him? I first met him before you were born."  
  
"I know. Fiona, please. I know you and he have issues, but look past them, for him, please. He is going through a tough time right now."  
  
"Tough time?"  
  
"You mean he didn't tell you? His lover left him. For once, he's the one sticking around." Amanda paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was significantly brighter. "So, have you met Joe Dawson yet? And, how about that guy you mentioned living there?"  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- - ----------------  
  
Having talked to Amanda for another thirty minutes, Fiona decided to skip her morning run, and head straight to the shower. The hot water and the steam was a poor substitute for coffee, but it was not until she was dressed, and in her car, did she get her first caffeine fix of the day, stopping in at a local bakery, buying a large coffee and a cinnamon chip scone.  
  
"Morning!" she called, hiding her uneasiness behind a cheery exterior, greeting Rebecca in the office.  
  
"Good morning, Fiona, right?" Fiona nodded, and Rebecca smiled. "I'll remember it tomorrow, promise. Took me nearly a week to remember Richard, and he even has the same first letter as I do. Same initials as my husband too."  
  
"Don't suppose the last name is Kramer?" Fiona teased.  
  
"No, god forbid! It's Kitterman. Been married for fifteen years. My husband is far from being a perfect mensch, but I love him." She smiled fondly. "So, anyway, you have a message in your mailbox."  
  
"Oh." Setting her coffee and scone on an empty desk, Fiona ducked into the backroom, finding her mailbox three up from the bottom left, finding the half-folded letter pushed towards the back. "Strange," she mumbled. Stepping back into the office again, she retrieved her coffee and scone, sipping a much needed swallow, and smiled at Rebecca. "Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome!" Rebecca called after her, mumbling to herself once Fiona was out of earshot, "Although for what, I don't know." She sighed, and turned again to her computer, answering the phone when it rang, "Hello. Philosophy and Classics Department."  
  
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Having reached her office, Fiona found another folded note taped to her door, her name written in shaky letters on the front. She sighed, ripped it off the wood, and read it, before crumbling it into a ball, and tossing it into the nearby trash receptacle at the hallway end. Mumbling once under her breath, she pushed her door open, only to find Methos sitting behind her desk, his feet propped on the desktop.  
  
"How did you get in here?" she asked, making no effort to hide the surprise or the venom in her voice.  
  
"Paper clip," he smiled, bringing his feet down, and sitting upright in the chair. "I told Joe you went sick. It seemed the best reason to explain your early departure last night."  
  
"Didn't realize Joe liked me enough to care why I left."  
  
"Can't exactly understand it myself, but he obviously does," shrugged Methos. "Why did you leave?"  
  
"I was tired." She dropped her bag and the scone on her desktop, passing a withering look to Methos' general direction. "So, I know how you got here then, but why bother?"  
  
"I wanted to talk to you."  
  
"So, talk." She shrugged, sipping at her coffee. "And, give me back my desk. You have your own office."  
  
"Was that sarcasm I heard?" he grinned, but stood coming around the desk. She sat before he changed his mind, shaking her head, taking another sip of coffee. Methos sighed, he sat in a chair opposite her desk, and he ran a hand through his dark hair. "I know I was never a very good one, Fiona, but I tried. I had promised Socrates, and. . ."  
  
"You never tried." Her eyes brewed a storm, her face dark. "You stuck around for three years, found it to be too much, and left one night, breaking two hearts in the process. You never tried, Methos. Socrates was my father, and even Plato was my father. But you, you were an interloper, there for a short period, giving rise to my hopes, leaving when I finally loved you."  
  
"You loved me Fiona?"  
  
"Sure, then. Now, I just wished I had taken your head when I had the chance." She shook her head, and looked away. "And, to think I had actually considered listening to Amanda."  
  
"Amanda?" Methos swallowed nervously.  
  
"Yes, she called me this morning." She paused, looking Methos in the eyes again. "He loved you, you know."  
  
"Yes, I know."  
  
"After you left. . . He wasn't himself. He had lost some part of himself. You had been there for him, Methos. You had been his comfort, and when you left, he felt like he had no one." She paused, again. "I was newly married, and he had yet to meet Aristotle. But Aristotle never understood, not like you did."  
  
"No?"  
  
"No."  
  
Methos paused, looking in the direction of the window, noticing the leaves were now first starting to turn. He returned his gaze, steady under her anger. "How did you die, Fiona?"  
  
She blinked to him, startled, before shaking her head. "It doesn't matter." She paused. "You knew, didn't you?"  
  
"Yes," he nodded, knowing he spoke of her Immortality. "I knew."  
  
"Is that why you left?"  
  
"It was one reason."  
  
She nodded, and looked to her hands. Methos reached across the desk, to touch her hands with his, and Fiona looked to him again, an unreadable expression on her face. "Big hands," she murmured. Methos gave her a half- smile, hesitantly, Fiona returned the gesture. "Give me some time, ok? Let me sort everything between you, me, us. I promise, I will not kill you this time."  
  
"Agreed." He stood to rise, stuffing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He paused once, a hand hovering over the doorknob. "I'm glad you came," he whispered, gone before Fiona could respond. She blinked, before turning her attention to the preparation of her class. 


	8. Chapter Seven: First Promise Kept

Author's Note: This chapter covers two days. Also, please note, there is some detail in this chapter somewhat more explicit than my usual style. I promise it is not too too graphic, but I am still upping the rating for this story. Not only because of this chapter, but also because if I want to tie in Richard Kramer (and Richie Ryan)'s stories into this story, I will need the slightly higher rating. Hope still that whoever is reading this, continues to still read. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
September 5-6, 2001, 1130 PM (September 5, to roughly 930 AM September 6), Seacouver Washington  
  
Trudging through the halls to her introductory class, Fiona thanked the Goddess she only needed to teach two classes today. She doubted she would be able to concentrate on anything more. She had enough trouble with her two classes, and was more thankful the second class was a first meeting, and she had nothing more to do than to pass out the syllabi, answer basic course content questions, and collect contact information.  
  
Once she decreed the second class finished, she attempted some paperwork, before she finally called her concentration shot. According to the wall clock, the time was only barely six. She sighed, collected her things, stopping in to say good night to Richard Kramer and Rebecca Kitterman as she left. She noticed Methos leaving the same time she did, pulling out of the parking lot, as she threw her purse and remaining work in the passenger seat. He paused, sliding to a stop just to the left of her car.  
  
"Leaving so early?" he smirked.  
  
"I could ask you the same question," she spat, but her heart was not into the attempted sarcasm, and the words fell flat.  
  
"Touché. See you tomorrow. Night, Fiona." He gave a wave through the open window, and Fiona nodded her return sentiments, hopping inside her own car, and following him out the parking lot, turning right to his left.  
  
Coming to a red light several seconds later, she reached into a purse, and dialed a phone number she long since memorized. "Marius?" she asked, her voice too hopeful, when a male voice answered the call.  
  
"This is he. That you, Fiona?"  
  
"Tis. I need distraction. Where are you?"  
  
"Still haven't left my office. Everything ok?"  
  
"No, yes, I don't know. Meet me at the Chinese restaurant in twenty minutes."  
  
She clicked the phone, throwing it back into her bag before Marius had the chance to respond, driving through the red light, quickly changing her pace from straight to a quick left turn. When she pulled into the parking lot, Marius already stood outside the restaurant. She sighed, running a finger comb through her hair, fluffing her bangs, straightening the lines of her skirt, before she stepped from the car, walking to where he stood, his arms crossed.  
  
"Mind telling me why you sounded like the devil was chasing you just now, hmm?" His eyebrow raised, giving her a pointed look.  
  
"Did I say that?" she shrugged, linking her arm comfortably through his. He nodded, and she sighed again. "Tell you inside?"  
  
He nodded again, smiling somewhat distractedly at the hostess. "Two," he answered, when she asked how many, following her to a table, Fiona's arm still linked through his.  
  
"Now, what is this about?" he asked, once they had been seated, and Fiona had ordered a large pot of the Chinese tea.  
  
"Maybe I just wanted to see you?" she smiled innocently.  
  
"You usually have a hidden agenda, Fiona." He paused, eyeing her. "Something happen at work?"  
  
"You could say that," she shrugged, quietly thanking the waitress for the tea and menus, pouring herself a cup. "I told you of Adam Pierson, right?"  
  
"Yes," he nodded, sipping at his own teacup. "You called me rather hurriedly yesterday. Did he do something?"  
  
"He and I went for a drink last night. At Joe's, actually. We didn't talk too much, couldn't really, not there. Then, when I get to work this morning, he's waiting for me in my office. Actually had the nerve to apologize."  
  
"For?"  
  
"For?" she repeated, her eyes threatening to blaze in annoyance. "For leaving, for not trying as hard as he could have. For breaking two hearts. I told him I loved him, Marius."  
  
"Harsh," he winced. Having first met Fiona roughly three years after he had first become Immortal, the first lesson she had taught him (outside of swordplay), was to never reveal your emotions, for if you did betray your emotions, you displayed your weakness to the opponent. Therefore, he had been surprised the first night they had slept together, almost a century and a half after their first meeting, as she viewed sex as the ultimate emotional betrayal, and he was a fellow Immortal. To have revealed her love, however ancient or true, or still true, to the man she hated more than anyone, he knew Fiona was not only feeling the consequences, but she was feeling the original betrayal. . . again. . .  
  
"Did you tell him this? I mean," he paused, frowning thoughtfully, "did you tell him why you loved him?"  
  
"He already knows." She shook her head, sipping more of the tea. The waitress returned, asking if they were ready to order, and both quickly scanned the menus, stammering entrée names, realizing they had not glanced to the menu during the conversation. The waitress smiled, jotting the choices down, collecting the menus, before disappearing towards the main kitchen. Fiona sighed, poured herself more tea. "I promised him I would not kill him," she added.  
  
"Will you keep such a promise?"  
  
"I want to," she answered honestly. "He was always merely an interloper in my life, Marius. It would be nice to know, to see if we could possibly be better friends."  
  
"I didn't know you were friends now." He raised his eyebrows again.  
  
"We're not, not exactly, at least. But I wouldn't call us enemies either." She paused, looking away for a moment, and whispering, "I don't know what we are exactly."  
  
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Having finished dinner little more than an hour later, leftovers in plastic and tinfoil containers, Marius climbed into the passenger seat of Fiona's car, having promised, and re-promised he would spend the night. From the haunting look still echoing in her eyes, she desperately needed the company.  
  
Once inside her apartment, leftovers in the refrigerator, shoes tossed somewhere on the floor, coats draped over the couch's back, Fiona had flopped back down on her bed, and Marius flopped down next to her. He side- glanced her, only to see her watching him, and cautiously, he leaned over slightly to press his lips to hers.  
  
He pulled back only barely to gauge her reaction (not knowing in her off state if she was looking for sex or for simple company), but seeing the look in her eyes, he guessed she needed more than the simple company, and he pressed his lips to hers again, slipping one hand under her neck, forcing her head up so he could knot his fingers in her hair. Her head fell back again onto the bed. He slipped his tongue between her open mouth, knocking entrance, darting between her teeth, gently massaging her tongue.  
  
"Marius," she whispered, her mouth still crushed against his. She wrapped her hands around his neck, her fingers clinging to the wisps of black hair.  
  
With his other hand, he pulled her blouse from her skirt, clumsily unbuttoning with his fingers. He barely noticed when her hands moved to his front, beginning to unbutton his own shirt, moving lower, to undo the metal claps of his belt.  
  
Naked body pressed to naked body, he had one hand splayed across her breast, sheets tangled with their legs. Fiona whispered against the skin of his neck, but the words and the language were lost.  
  
------------------------------------------------------  
  
When Marius awoke the following morning, he found the bed half-empty. He propped himself on his elbows to see Fiona still in a towel, her hair still damp. "Morning," he mumbled.  
  
"Morning," she greeted, and he noticed her voice sounded significantly brighter. "You missed a great run."  
  
"I don't run."  
  
She laughed, casting him an amused glance over her shoulders, fastening, and then straightening her bra.  
  
He glanced to the clock, seeing the numbers blink back to him, reading just after seven. "Is there already coffee on?" he added.  
  
"In the kitchen," was Fiona's muffled reply, her words caught behind the thin cotton of her short sleeve shirt. Marius nodded, distengaling himself from the bed, pulling on his jeans (cast aside last night), before strolling to the kitchen. Coming back, Fiona was nearly fully dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed, struggling with a pair of her stockings. "I never did understand these things," she muttered. "If you ask me, we should have kept them for forties craftsmanship."  
  
"Parachutes?" smiled Marius, leaning in the door.  
  
"Exactly," she agreed, standing, her stockings in place, wandering by him to find her shoes. He shot an arm out, looping it about his waist, bending down to kiss her. "What was that for?" she asked.  
  
"Because," he shrugged, to which Fiona smiled.  
  
Having left the apartment, she dropped him off at his, before heading to work. She sighed, greeted Rebecca, greeted Richard, stepped inside her office, and she readied prepare for another day. 


	9. Interlude I

September 6-7, 2001, Glenfinnan, Scotland  
  
A dark-haired stranger paused in the Donner Woods. He knew this place. He remembered it. He had played here as a child against his father's words, to prove to his friends he was worthy of being called the Chieftain's son. It was here he had thought he would die under the wolf's teeth, and it was here he had first met Cassandra, and she had revealed to him, he would be a part in a great prophecy, a fate and a destiny older and darker than himself.  
  
Since he had first left, wandering the world, trying to find the answers, he wondered, if perhaps the prophecy she had told him of was only a small part in a larger whole, if even she did not know how to read the entire tapestry.  
  
He sighed, balanced the pack he wore on his shoulders and back, moving the walking stick first, his footsteps following close behind. He hiked in silence.  
  
Having first stepped foot in the village of Glenfinnan, and having mentioned to the storekeeper he needed supplies to spend the night in the Donner Woods, the storekeeper had backed away, talking quickly, in attempt to stray him for the idea. Still a superstitious folk, but he had remained determined in his plans, and finally the storekeeper had sold him what he wanted.  
  
The stranger did not ask if the Donner woods witch still lived there. He did not want to know the answer. Not until he found the old cottage, and determined the answer for himself.  
  
The stranger paused briefly in his hike, to sip from the water bottle. He judged from the sun for it to be about mid-afternoon, and he knew he would need to hurry, if he did not want to spend the night in the open woods. Closing the water bottle, returning it to his bag, again he moved his walking stick forward for his footsteps to follow.  
  
He found the clearing in the early dusk, exactly how he remembered it. Taking a deep breath, he pushed back the bearskin guarding the door, and he stepped inside. The cottage was empty, but he had not expected anyone else to be there. He did not think anyone would have been here in years, maybe centuries.  
  
He sighed, again, removed the pack from his shoulders and back, dropping it on the floor close to the door, resting the walking stick against the wall, and moved to light the fire. Still with no words, he cooked his dinner over the fire, spending a sleepless night, tending to the fire, wishing he could see images in the flames.  
  
He left the cottage the just after sunrise the next morning, slightly more tired than he had been the night before, still disturbed by the images running through his mind. Walking stick back in hand, he headed back to the village.  
  
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He saw the chimney smoke close to nightfall, and he headed to the bar, where he knew he could find a drink, and perhaps some decent shred of Scottish hospitality. He wandered in, taking a cautious seat at one of the tables, gazing around, noticing the locals pretending not to see him.  
  
"Looking for anything in particular, stranger?" asked a young woman, coming to his table, setting down silverware and napkin. "You are a stranger?"  
  
"You could say that. I'll have a beer, and some haggis, and whatever the house special is today."  
  
"Sure," she frowned slightly, jotting the notes down. "Anything else?"  
  
"Yes. Does Rachel MacLeod still work here?"  
  
The girl looked surprised, quickly masking the emotion, not wanting this stranger to see her reaction. "Depends," she quickly responded, "who wants to know?"  
  
"A friend." He paused. "Her cousin," the stranger added.  
  
"Which one?"  
  
"Both," he whispered.  
  
The waitress glanced nervously to him, before she nodded, relaxing her stance and her expression. "I'll tell her."  
  
The stranger sighed, dropping his chin into his palms, watching the waitress sashay to the bar counter, whispering something to the owner, pointing to his direction. The owner looked over, frowned, whispering something in response, and the waitress nodded again, disappearing. She returned with his beer, setting it down before him.  
  
"I think it would be best if you had your meal then left, sir. I'm sure you know we don't take too kindly too strangers, and that we protect our own."  
  
"Please," he whispered urgently. "I need to see Rachel MacLeod."  
  
"I'm afraid Rachel MacLeod is not working today."  
  
"But-"  
  
"I will bring you your food," she regarded him coldly, before turning on his heels again. The stranger groaned inaudibly, gulping his beer too quickly.  
  
He ate little of his food, before finishing his drink, leaving some money on the table, finally leaving. He could feel the owner's eyes boring into his neck. Slumped against the outside of the building, he cursed loudly, and in Gaelic.  
  
Pushing himself off the building, he started to make his way to the tiny he inn he was staying in. He barely noticed it had started to rain.  
  
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He felt better after a hot shower. He new he would be best to get some sleep, but he did not feel tired enough to sleep. He sighed, pulled a book from his bag, curling on the bed to read some. He had read the same sentence twenty-six times before the knock on the door startled him. Frowning, he padded to the room door, opening it only slightly. "Yes?" he asked.  
  
"I am sorry, sir. But you have a visitor."  
  
A tiny beat of hope jumped in his chest. "I'll see him or her."  
  
The older-looking man nodded, turning away, and the stranger frowned again, telling himself to not hope too much. It could very well be someone sent by Joe Dawson, having finally tracked him down. He opened the door wider, peering into the corridor, seeing a womanly shape walking down it. The tiny beat fluttered again. "Rachel?" he called.  
  
He saw the figure nod, her face breaking into a gesture between a smile and a frown, but walking quicker, embracing him warmly. "Maureen said you were in the bar today looking for me."  
  
"Yes," he nodded, "yes." He motioned her inside his room, she only hesitated a second before stepping inside. He closed the door behind them. "I did. I was."  
  
Rachel MacLeod regarded him silently for several minutes before she nodded again, removing her jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the lone chair. She sat on the edge of the dresser, and she crossed her arms. She smiled fully this time. "It is good to see you, Duncan MacLeod."  
  
"Good to see you too," he smiled, running a hand through his closely cropped hair, sitting on the edge of the bed. His expression had returned to more serious. "Do you have time? There is a lot you need to know." 


	10. Chapter Eight: La Boheme

September 8, 2001, 1030 AM (to about 130 AM the next morning), Seacouver, Washington  
  
Fiona slept late.  
  
It was a Saturday, and she had nowhere she needed to be. Briefly, when she had been married to a Jewish man in the years following the Second World War, she had attended synagogue with him every Saturday morning; she still remembered all the prayers. But since he had died in nineteen sixty-one, she had stayed away from the organized prayer scene, keeping instead to her ancient childhood beliefs of the pantheons and the one Goddess, and keeping her weekends to sleep late.  
  
Blinking at her clock, the numbers 1 0 3 6 blinked back at her. She sighed, stretched contently, and emerged from bed for her coffee and breakfast. Last night, she had visited Joe's bar again, listening to Marius play until the early hours of the morning. It had been close to three-thirty when she had finally come home, Marius with her. She did not wonder to where he was now.  
  
She sipped her coffee, loving the liquid slipping down her throat. She noticed the note next to the coffee maker. Curious, she took it in her hands to reads it.  
  
*Fiona, sorry I had to leave, but I have an early meeting today that I unfortunately cannot miss. I'll call you later? Enjoy the coffee. Love, M.*  
  
Fiona smiled, before she crumbled the note in her hands, arching her hand back to throw to the trashcan. She missed, and picked the note up again. She tried again, this time making the basket. She smiled, finishing her coffee, rummaging about her cupboards for cereal.  
  
She had just poured herself a bowl, when her cell phone rang, and curious, she answered it. "Hello?"  
  
"Hello. Is this Fiona, please?"  
  
"This is she. Who is this?"  
  
"Paul. I helped to move in your furniture last week. Sorry about not calling you sooner, but this week's been real busy."  
  
"Sure, no problem." She decided not to mention that she had not expected him to call ever. "So, what can I do for you? How are you?"  
  
"Still kicking. You doing anything tonight?"  
  
Fiona quickly racked her brain. Tonight? She and Marius had left it open that he might come by some time tonight, but she didn't know what time, or if he even would. And if he did, nothing would stop him from coming by later. "No, nothing," she finally answered. "Did you have something in mind?"  
  
"I just got two tickets to an opera tonight. Won them off the radio," he added proudly. Not many left. Do you like opera? Thought we could go, maybe somewhere for dinner first?"  
  
"Which opera?"  
  
"Umm. . ." Fiona heard some scuffle on the line, assuming Paul must be looking for the tickets. "La Boheme," he announced several minutes later. "Ever heard or seen it?"  
  
Fiona bit her lip to keep herself from laughing out loud. She did not think it would be wise to mention that she had both seen and heard La Boheme several times, most in the turn of last century, or that she had known the author, and had actually played Mimi for a few turns in the early productions. "I'm familiar with it, yes."  
  
"Great! So, did you want to go? You seem like the opera type."  
  
"Do I now?" laughed Fiona. "Sure, sounds like fun. Did you want to meet you there?"  
  
"I could get you. Isn't that what makes it an actual date?" This time, Paul laughed. "I'll pick you up around six?"  
  
"Six is fine. See you then. Bye," she paused, "Paul."  
  
He wished his farewell, disconnecting the call first. Fiona started into the phone for several seconds, before clicking it close, and erupting into laughter. She could just see Amanda appreciating this. With another laugh at that thought, she quickly finished her coffee and cereal, changing into old clothes -overalls and a white tee, both paint splattered -finding her paint brushes and a blank canvas.  
  
She had first started painting in the fourteen hundreds, and six hundred years later, she found it still relaxed her.  
  
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Few minutes before four-thirty, and Fiona threw a paintbrush across the room, looking at the canvas before her. It was no longer blank, but she still saw the painting slightly unfinished. But she was shot, and her hand was cramped. Stretching her muscles, she stood, extending her arms behind her back, and she glanced at the clock. Her mouth opened into an 'o'. She had been painting for over six hours.  
  
Leaving the canvas to dry, she cleaned the paintbrushes, and then proceeded to clean herself, as she knew both her skin and hair were flecked with paint. Stepping out of the hot water and steam, her phone rang, and she frowned, answering it. "Hello. . . Marius! I was going to call you. . . No, no, just going out tonight. . . To the opera. With Paul. He helped to move my furniture in last week. . . . Because he invited me, and because the opera is a Giacomo Puccini, and I have a soft spot for him. . . I don't know. Late, I would think. We're having dinner first. . . Call you when I get in?. . . *laughs* you have fun too, bye."  
  
Clicking her phone closed again, she searched her closet for clothes, swearing under her breath at the thought of wearing stockings again.  
  
----------------------------------------------------------  
  
"You look nice," complimented Paul, holding the chair for her. He had shown up at her door only a few minutes after six, a bouquet of yellow tulips in hand, wearing a jacket and tie, verifying she liked Italian. She said she did.  
  
"Thank you," she responded. She folded her napkin across her lap. "So do you."  
  
"Thanks." A waitress came by the table to hand them menus and water glasses, asking if they wanted drinks, but both shook their heads. "So, you teach, right?" he asked.  
  
"Philosophy. At the university."  
  
"Aren't you young to be teaching there? No offense, of course, just. . . you do look young."  
  
"I'll take that as a compliment," she smiled. "I'm twenty-six, almost twenty-seven. I was a prodigy, graduated from high school when I was only fifteen, finished my undergraduate degree in three years, had my masters at age nineteen, and a PhD at age twenty-two."  
  
It was the history she had invented for herself, and for this current pseudonym. Just because she used her real name again did not mean she also used her real history. She understood the rules.  
  
"I taught in New York for a few years before coming here." She paused again, sipping her water, smiling across the table. "What about you? What's your life story?"  
  
"Nothing nearly so dramatic. I'm thirty-three. Started this job to earn my way through college. Now, I own the company. Well, co-own it. But I have general run of the thing. My partner is great with inventing ideas, but not when it comes to executing them." He paused, shrugged. "Compliment one another, I guess."  
  
"Was he the one who helped you last week?"  
  
"To move you in, you mean? Nah, that was Rich. Ryan, I think he said the last name was. Or, was it Noel? But anyway he just moved back here from . . . somewhere." He shrugged again. "I don't know where. He's very secretive of his past. But he was looking for a job, and I needed a man. End of deal."  
  
The waitress returned, asking for their orders. Fiona asked for the eggplant parmesan, and Paul ordered the veal. "So, who is your favorite philosopher?" Paul asked once the waitress has left again.  
  
"I love the ancient philosophers. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle."  
  
"Yeah? How come?"  
  
Fiona raised her eyebrows, giving her voice enough lilt to convince she was joking. "Possibly because I knew them?"  
  
To which Paul threw his head back and laughed. He reached his hand awkwardly across the table for hers. He smiled, and Fiona smiled back. He did love a woman who had a sense of humor.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Tired yet?" Paul asked. He figured it to be close to midnight. The opera had just ended, and he had enjoyed it, much to his own surprise. He had never seen an opera before, and from her expression throughout the show, it was obvious Fiona had enjoyed it as well. Walking to his car -parked about half a block away -he reached for her hand, and she did not pull away. She shook her head. "I know this great, little pastry shop not far from here, and we did skip dessert earlier."  
  
"Pastry? You said the magic word."  
  
Paul smiled. He opened the car door for her, echoed her order of coffee for himself, and he laughed when her eyes grew wide at the prospect of chocolate cake.  
  
"I want to see you again, Fiona," he heard himself say. They still sat in his car, in the parking lot of her apartment complex, and the conviction of the words fell on the air, almost gracefully.  
  
"I'd like that," she responded. When he leaned over to kiss her, she showed no hesitation in returning the gesture. She smiled, with purse in hands, she exited the car, waving before she disappeared into the first floor foyer. Paul gave a small grin, throwing the car into reverse, to pull away. Her lips had been warm.  
  
Grinning herself, Fiona let herself in, to find Marius on her couch, watching some movie on cable. "Hey, been waiting long?"  
  
"Maybe an hour?" he shrugged. "I used the key under the doormat. Didn't think you would mind."  
  
"As long as you put it back."  
  
"Of course, I did." He patted the couch cushion next to his. Fiona obliged, kicking her high heels off in the process. "Have a nice time then?"  
  
"Lovely. Enough to warrant a second date." She cocked his head, studying his expression carefully. "You are ok with this, right?"  
  
His response was to laugh. Tenderly, he touched his lips to hers. Fiona smiled, and rested her head on his shoulder. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, smiling when he heard her deep breathing several moments later. He carried her to bed, first removing her stockings, dress, and bra, slipping an old, ratty tee over her head, slipping her under the covers. He removed his own shirt and jeans, slipping in beside her. He touched her lips once more, and she stirred slightly in his sleep, mumbling something in a language he did not catch.  
  
He smiled, and he closed his own eyes. He was ok. After all, they had agreed: they were technically not together 


	11. Chapter Nine: Late Night Explanations

September 10, 2001, 830 PM (to about 1130), Seacouver, Washington  
  
"So, you have DSL now?" Marius asked. It was late Monday evening, and he had stopped in for dinner, bringing a bottle of wine with him to celebrate Fiona's first week in Washington. "When did this happen?"  
  
"Yesterday afternoon," she shrugged, pouring pasta sauce into a saucepan to heat over the stove. She tasted it, frowning, pulling some pepper and basil from the shelves to add.  
  
"I thought they didn't work on Sundays?"  
  
"What can I say? I have connections."  
  
"This doesn't involve dating the DSL guy too, does it?"  
  
"No," giggled Fiona, casting him a bemused look over her shoulder. "And, that was only one date. We agreed on the promise of a second date, we haven't gone on it yet."  
  
"A minor technicality," he teased. "Don't ruin the sauce."  
  
Fiona spun around on her heels, a mock expression of seriousness on her face. "I'll have you know, I was alive when the Italians invented the sauce, *child*. I am incapable of ruining it."  
  
To which, Marius laughed, pouring Fiona her first glass of wine. "Yes, old woman," he said lightly, trailing a hand along her back when she stuck her tongue out at him. "Or, child as well."  
  
"Bloody git," she grinned, wiping her hands across her jeans upon hearing the phone ring. "Hello?" she answered. "Bella!. . . how am I? Oh, you know me, I'm fine. Got home from work about an hour ago, in process of cooking dinner. . . yes, I am eating healthfully. . . pasta, sauce, wine. . . yes, and vegetables. . . because I am legal, Bella," to this Fiona smirked, Marius quietly chuckling, guessing as to what Bella must have said, "Yes, I promise, no more than two glasses. . . yes, but how are you?. . . uh-huh, uh-huh. . . well, do give James my love. . . for Thanksgiving. I refuse to miss your homemade chocolate pecan pie because I was in Seacouver. . . you too. Bye."  
  
Fiona clicked her cell phone closed, tasting the sauce again, watching Marius' quirking mouth and face over the counter. "Yes?" she raised her eyebrow.  
  
"Oh, nothing. Should I pour you more wine? Or, is one glass enough for you?"  
  
"Stuff it," she laughed, and she reached over to turn the heat under the sauce off.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------  
  
When Marius left two hours later, having apologized for not being able to spend the full night, but that he had an early business meeting, and wanted to verify he slept the night, to which Fiona mockingly punched his shoulder, Fiona flopped on her couch, to watch the news before bed.  
  
But she was still wound from Marius' visit, and the news did little to hold her attention. "I feel like I'm back in my graduate days," she mumbled, grabbing her keys, throwing a light jacket over her clothes, pulling her shoes on only once she was in her car. The streets were nearly empty.  
  
There was only one other customer in the bar, and Fiona sighed, before taking a deep breath, and pushing the door open. "Hey, Joe," she greeted. "Place still open to the public?"  
  
"Sure is. Haven't seen you since that time you and Adam came in together. How are things?"  
  
"Oh, you know, things," she shrugged, perching herself on one of the barstools. "A rum and coke please. More soda than alcohol."  
  
"Coming up."  
  
Fiona looked to the other customer, noticing he looked vaguely familiar. "Do I know you?"  
  
"Doubt it." He drained the last drops of his beer. "I'll be seeing you, Joe," he called, pushing himself away from the counter to hop again to the floor. "Night."  
  
"Good night, Rich," the old bartender responded, turning to give Fiona her drink. "Here you go," he said over the slam of the door.  
  
"Thanks. His name was Rich?"  
  
"Is."  
  
"Heh, I think he helped to move my furniture in."  
  
"Possible, he mentioned he was working odd jobs currently."  
  
"Odd jobs?"  
  
But Joe had already turned, no longer asking her questions. Fiona sighed, numbly sipping her drink, when she heard the door slam. She glanced over to notice Methos strolling nonchalantly in; she frowned, noticing he looked surprised to see her. He nodded in his direction, sitting himself in his regular barstool, and called out a greeting to Joe.  
  
"Hello to you too, stranger," greeted Joe, sliding a beer across the counter.  
  
Methos drained half his beer before re-setting the mug on the counter, and he looked again to Fiona. She smiled shakily to him, and he frowned. "So, I got a call from Day this afternoon."  
  
"Oh, yeah. He say anything about Mac?"  
  
"Apparently, our favorite boy scout is in Scotland currently. He told his cousin Rachel everything. And, I mean *everything*."  
  
"Everything?"  
  
"Everything," repeated Methos, sipping more of his beer. "She apparently took it rather well. No screams, no fainting. And, if Day's report is to be trusted, she actually slapped him after he finished for scaring her. Seems she thought he was in actual danger, and he instead tells her what she at first thought were bogus stories."  
  
"Tough woman, she is," Joe agreed, idly wiping down the counter.  
  
"Rachel Eisenstein?" interrupted Fiona, looking confusedly between the two men. "Isn't she still in New York."  
  
"Different Rachel," Joe explained.  
  
"Oh," she nodded. "And Mac would be. . .?"  
  
"Duncan MacLeod," the former watcher added. "Good friend of ours. Currently on vacation."  
  
"That's one way of putting it," Methos mumbled. "Look," he turned to face Fiona, and for the first time since coming in, she noticed the utter defeat in his eyes, "basically he skipped town several months ago, and no one has heard much from him since. This Rachel is his cousin, also a MacLeod."  
  
"Oh. Is he the one Amanda meant?"  
  
Methos' expression shifted to startlement, realizing just what Amanda could have said. He nodded, "Yes."  
  
"I'm sorry, then."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You know Amanda?" demanded Joe, having seen and heard every word of the exchange between them, curious as to the amount of information Methos had just revealed to this seemingly stranger. "What did you say your last name was?"  
  
"Kessler. Fiona Kessler," she responded, refusing to look him in the eye. "Yes, I know Amanda. I met her six years ago. She and Nick Wolfe are both good friends of mine. As is Rachel Eisenstien, before you ask, and her everything, Connor MacLeod."  
  
"Surprised the elder MacLeod never mentioned his kin then," Joe sighed, looking pointedly at this young looking girl. "Just how do you know them? Dylan's mentioned you over the months I've known him, but I got the impression of you being his sister. If that night was any indication, you two are definitely not siblings."  
  
"I just know them." She shrugged, only realizing after several seconds that Dylan was Marius' current pseudonym. "How do you know Me-Adam?" she quickly corrected herself, realizing too late her mistake.  
  
Joe raised an eyebrow, and Methos sighed. "Relax, Joe. She knows who I am. She's known for two millennia."  
  
"You mean, you are--?"  
  
"Surprise?" she frowned, not understanding how Joe Dawson knew of Immortals, when he was not one himself. She sighed, and she tossed her head in Methos' general direction . "This one here, was, in many ways, my first teacher. As he said, we've known one another for over two millennia."  
  
"Oh, god, why me?" mumbled Joe. "What am I? Immortal Central?" He looked from Methos to Fiona. From the way his eyebrows raised, Fiona guessed he must be asking the oldest immortal a silent question, and from Methos' head shaking, he must have understood and answered. Joe nodded.  
  
"Fiona, wait!" Methos called.  
  
She had left the bar not long after the confession, heading to her car, suddenly feeling tired, and wanting to be home. She stopped her walking at the sound of his voice, not turning to him, but not leaving to move again either.  
  
"About what you said in there," he paused, looking to his feet, "thanks."  
  
"Don't think this means I've forgiven you, because I haven't, not fully," she responded.  
  
"But you are warming to me?" The hopefulness in his voice did not escape her.  
  
"Maybe," she shrugged. "See you at work tomorrow. Night."  
  
"Night," he farewelled, stuffing his hands into his pockets, feeling a smile quirk the corners of his face. Now, if only he could get Duncan to come home. 


	12. Chapter Ten: Initial Shock

Author's Note: Like most others, I still remember exactly where I was this fateful morning. I was a college freshman, and living in my college dormitory. Upon hearing the two boys next door scream at their television set, my roommate closest to that shared wall, banged on the wall, screaming for them to be quiet -we had thought they had taped the previous night's football game, and were watching that. Barely ten minutes later, my third roommate barged into the room (having left to shower, coming back still unshowered), and asked if we had heard the news. We shook our heads no, and she told us that she had heard that the Twin Towers had been hit. We proceeded to turn on the radio, and two hours later, my first roommate and I were on a train to her parent's house. Once there, I called my parents for the second time, to let them know I was ok, and I was out of the city.  
  
This chapter deals with those events of September Eleventh, 2001. (You have been warned).  
  
(Please note also, the set-up of this chapter differs slightly from that of my normal format. Also, the time difference between Seacouver and New York has been accounted for. I am sorry if this is confusing in any way. Next chapter will return to normal format.)  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
September 11, 2001  
  
752 AM, Manhattan, New York  
  
Isabella 'Bella' Sangrini frowned at the city traffic, cursing herself for the fifth time for not taking the subway. Quickly, she pulled her car to the side of the street and parked. She looked once, twice, thrice, before she exited the car, hopping quickly onto the sidewalk. It was a typical early autumn morning, and she decided to walk the rest of the way to meet her husband.  
  
She met him every Tuesday morning for breakfast.  
  
She paused briefly at a store window, and she admired the display there. Her sister's birthday was still two months away, but she had vowed she would find the perfect present. After all, Reenie turned forty this year.  
  
She finally came to the final crosswalk, and she quickly crossed the street, and she paused to smile at the doorman. "Good morning, Ms. Sangrini," he greeted. "Meeting the husband?"  
  
"That I am," she responded, and she walked inside the South Tower.  
  
455 AM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
Upon leaving work last night, head bartender Michael Ross, or Mike as he was commonly called, had asked head waitress Darcy Gallagher if she wanted to go somewhere to see the sunrise. He had thought it would be a nice end to their week vacation, before returning to be in the bar again for the Tuesday night rush. They had both stopped in separately yesterday to verify the time they would need to be in.  
  
Darcy had said yes, and Mike had told her that he would be at her apartment at four-thirty, and that he expected her to be ready.  
  
Now, twenty-five minutes later, he sat on her couch, flipping through a back issue of Time magazine, with the morning news playing softly on the background. Having knocked on the door at four thirty-two, Darcy had answered still in her bathrobe, with a towel wrapped around her head. He had frowned, reminding her he had said four-thirty. She had laughed, "I know what you said, hun. But I didn't expect you to be here right then. I'll only be a minute. Make yourself comfortable."  
  
He had read the first paragraph sixteen times, but still did not know what it said. Although, in hindsight, he knew he should have expected this. They had officially been dating for five months now, and never once had she been ready on time for anything.  
  
He sighed, and he looked to the bedroom. He shook his head, closed the magazine, and tossed it onto the cushion. He leaned his head against the back of the couch.  
  
"Ready?" asked Darcy, stepping out of the bedroom. A clock read five-o- two.  
  
"I was born ready," he responded, standing. "You didn't expect to be stopping for coffee or anything anywhere, did you?"  
  
She only smiled mischievously, switching the television off on their way out.  
  
517 AM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
At the blare of his alarm, Marius moaned, and dragged one eye open. Seeing the too-early time on the clock, he shut the eye again in attempt to block the sound out. He failed, and in a clumsy attempt, he moved his hand, shifting his touch for several seconds before the alarm finally stopped.  
  
He moaned again, and he dragged himself from bed, stumbling to the kitchen and to the coffee.  
  
He made a mental note to ask his private secretary to never schedule six- thirty morning meetings again. The free breakfasts were not worth the three hours lost sleep.  
  
822 AM, Brooklyn, New York  
  
Amanda stirred at the presence of another Immortal entering the apartment. Groping across the half-empty king-sized bed, she found her sword under the pillow, and she pulled a silken robe over her otherwise naked body. She pressed against the walkway of the Brooklyn brownstone, moving silently -very cat-like- to the front door. "Nick?" she whispered. "Nick?"  
  
"In the flesh," he yawned, and she dropped her sword. He eyed the weapon, turning his tired gaze to her face, and he dropped a light kiss on her mouth. "Expecting company?"  
  
"Oh, you know, Connor had said he would be by today."  
  
Nick Wolfe smirked, pulling off his jacket, and tossing it over the couch back. He held up a white bag. "I stopped at the corner bakery on my way home." He yawned, again, moving a hand to cover his mouth. "Man, was that a looong night." He moved to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, and Amanda followed, propping her sword between the gas stove and the pantry. "About two-thirty, we have this guy come in to report a burglary at this store he owns in Queens. Antique, apparently. In his attempt to make it to his own police, he somehow ended up in Brooklyn, to us. Except, then we have to tell him, we're not police officers. Obviously, he doesn't care, and we file an official report, promising to pass it along to the real police."  
  
"Did he leave then?"  
  
"Oh, he left, all right. Bert and I had one of our rookies follow him. The rookie returns just before five. There was no burglary. The man faked the whole thing."  
  
Amanda's eyes widened. "Do you think. . .?"  
  
"I don't know what to think," he admitted. The coffee maker beeped ready, and he poured himself and Amanda each a mug, setting the two on the table, sitting himself, and swallowing the desperately needed caffeine. "Thankfully, Bert didn't say anything to me."  
  
"Should he have?"  
  
Nick shrugged, again. He opened the white bag, and he pulled out a blueberry muffin, taking a large bite, following it down with more coffee. "I wouldn't have been surprised. I am thoroughly convinced he knows. I mean, most private investigators carry around guns or weapons, but very few these days carry around swords as well."  
  
Amanda allowed herself a tiny grin, and she reached into the bag too, pulling out a raspberry danish. She bit into it daintily. "So, what are you going to do with the fake burglar?"  
  
"I don't know yet." He shook his head, and he thoughtfully chewed more of the muffin.  
  
533 AM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
Having returned from her morning run, and showered, Fiona now turned the shower knob, as the hot water was gone. She wrapped herself in a towel. The coffee would be done now, and she wandered into the kitchen to pour herself a mug. She paused for a few minutes to check the weather in the newspaper, and nodded to see the regular seasonal temperatures.  
  
Coffee still in her hands, she stopped to switch on the morning news station, turning the volume louder, so she could hear in the bedroom. She paused in front of her closet. She had shaved her legs while in the shower, and remembered the time when women didn't need to shave their legs, when women would never have even thought of shaving their legs.  
  
She sipped more of the coffee. Maybe she wouldn't wear stockings today.  
  
842 AM, Brooklyn, New York  
  
Rachel Eisenstein paused briefly on the street corner, before she crossed, holding a smaller boy's hand in her hand.  
  
"Where are we going, Savta?" he asked, his voice excited at the prospect of a trip. He was only five years old.  
  
"To visit my friend, Connor."  
  
"Is he nice?"  
  
"Very much so," she smiled.  
  
Digging in her purse, she found the key, and she let herself into the townhouse, motioning the boy up the stairs. "Will he like me?" he asked.  
  
Rachel noticed the smile had suddenly been placed with a frown. "Of course, he'll like you! How he could not like you?"  
  
"Can I knock then?" he asked, as they had climbed the one flight of stairs, and stood at the second front door. He turned a hopeful, wide-eyed expression to her.  
  
She nodded, hiding the bemused expression on her face. She never knocked. Connor would be surprised.  
  
844 AM, Manhattan, New York  
  
Bella and her husband, James, crossed the corridor to the elevator. "Did you call the plumber?" he asked, leaning his head against the elevator wall.  
  
"Yes. They said they could come tomorrow between three-thirty and five- thirty." She paused, noticing the elevator was not moving. "Could you come home a little early?"  
  
"I'll try," he frowned, and he pushed the button again. Still nothing happened. The elevator had stopped. He searched his pockets, in hoping he might find his cell phone, only to realize nanoseconds later, he did not have it, and that he had left it in his office. "Bella?" he asked.  
  
"Here," she said, handing him hers  
  
"Thanks." He hesitated only briefly, trying to think of who would be at their desk to answer the phone, when the elevator lurched into movement, then stopped again, opening at the floor they had started at. "We didn't move at all?" He looked quizzically to his wife, handing her back the phone, and stepping from the elevator, noticing she followed closely behind.  
  
They both noticed the crowds of people hovering near the windows. "Tom, hey, Tom?" He caught a tall, balding man hurrying by. "What's going on? Something wrong?"  
  
"Plane just flew into the north tower. Don't know if it was a mistake or not. We're trying to figure out what exactly just happened."  
  
"Oh, god," he mumbled. He felt Bella reach for his hand. He squeezed hers tightly in his.  
  
848 AM, Brooklyn, New York  
  
Rachel Einsenstein thought it to be strange when Connor came to the door. "Savta," the young boy pulled on her shirt, "is he ok? Did he fall in?"  
  
"No, no he didn't," she assured him, somehow knowing he meant falling into the sink. Idly, placing a hand on the top of his light brown hair, Rachel pulled the keys again from her pockets, letting themselves in. "Connor?" she called. "Connor?"  
  
No answer. Rachel frowned.  
  
"He fell in, didn't he?" the boy asked again.  
  
"He did not fall in, Noah." She bent to his eye level. "I promise you." He nodded shakily, looking to her with wide eyes. She smiled distractedly, and she stood again. "He probably ran out for some breakfast. He knew you were coming, you know?"  
  
"He did?"  
  
"Uh-huh," she smiled. "Come on. Let's get you some milk."  
  
"Ok," he grinned.  
  
Three minutes later, he sat at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of milk and eating some toast, while Rachel poured herself a coffee Connor had left on in hurry to go somewhere, or anywhere. She frowned when the phone rang, shushing Noah, as she answered it. "Hello?. . . Connor, where are you? Uh- huh. . . uh-huh. . . are you sure?. . . uh-huh. . . right. . . yes. . . No, I understand, of course, and I'll stay here. . . bye."  
  
She frowned harder having hung up the phone. "Is he fall in?"  
  
"No, of course not," she answered Noah. "He just ran out. He'll be back soon. Finish your breakfast."  
  
Rachel turned away, biting her lip. A plane had flown into the south tower or the World Trade Center.  
  
552 AM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
Fiona pulled on a pair of khaki pants, having decided she did not want to bother with a skirt today. Brown boots, white tee with a white blouse over it. She looked like she was still in college herself, not like she was readying to leave to teach it. She sighed, checking the time again. She was ahead of schedule, but if she still needed to finish planning the quizzes for her introductory class. She turned the television volume down; she poured herself another mug of coffee, and a bowl of cereal.  
  
Twelve minutes later, she finished the quizzes, and checking her watch, she turned to the television hoping to catch the weather report. Instead, she saw the terrifying images of a plane crashing into the Twin Towers. She screamed silently, fiddling with the remote to turn the sound higher again.  
  
"I repeat," blared the newscaster, "a second plane just crashed into the North Tower. This following an earlier similar crash into the South Tower, we know now this is no accident or lost flight."  
  
Shaking, she found her cell phone, and she dialed Marius. "Hi. Did you see the news?"  
  
617 AM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
Adam Pierson had been on the phone ten minutes now with Joe Dawson.  
  
"Damn it, Methos! We had men and women in there! Those towers held our top office for the Unites States and Canada!" The older man paused. "Have you heard from anyone else?"  
  
"Amanda called just before you did. She says both she and Nick are fine, shaken, but fine."  
  
"And Connor?"  
  
"Connor's fine?"  
  
"You spoke to him?"  
  
"He is fine, Dawson."  
  
But, it seemed to Joe that Adam was not entirely convinced in those convictions. He sighed, not knowing what else to say.  
  
624 AM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
Having watched the sunrise, with his arms around Darcy's shoulders, Mike thought the world to be perfect. It was only now, as they pulled into a breakfast-specialty diner and caught the morning news as they ordered their eggs, sausages and pancakes, that he knew the world was not.  
  
Over the wooden table knots, he held Darcy's hand. For once, ordering her breakfast, she had no sauce in her voice.  
  
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AN-- This chapter is turning longer than I expected. So, I will be dividing this into several smaller chapters. Please note also, it is in this story arc that we discover just how Richard Kramer's past ties into the Highlander universe. . . .  
  
'Savta' is the Hebrew word for 'Grandmother'. 


	13. Chapter Eleven: New York State of Mind

September 11, 2001, 945 AM, Brooklyn, New York  
  
Connor MacLeod remembered where he was when former President John F. Kennedy had been shot, and he remembered where he had been in the time of the Boston Tea Party, at the time of former President Abraham Lincoln's assassination, and at the time when immediate past American President Bill Clinton claimed he had not had a sexual relationship with White House intern, Monica Lewinsky. Now, he knew he would too always remember where he had been the first moment he had heard two planes had flown into the two Twin Towers in the financial district of Manhattan Island.  
  
Knowing Rachel Eisenstein and her grandson Noah had plans to visit for breakfast before a planned field trip to the Bronx Zoo, he had decided to visit the corner market to buy the proper ingredients for eggs, vegetarian sausage, and waffles. A Hay Bailer's breakfast he called it, and a good breakfast in his opinion for a growing boy on his first trip to the zoo.  
  
He had been standing in line to make his purchases, when he heard on the portable radio of the news. The store was family owned, in the family of two elderly Jews, who had survived the camps. "Terrible, just terrible," muttered the husband. "Forties Poland over again." His wife had to seize control of the register, while he listened to the radio, but she too lost her concentration, muttering herself, of a new Hitler being behind "such a terrible, terrible attack," but no one seemed to mind.  
  
Connor called Rachel twice, first time to let her know what had happened, and the second to assure her he was on his way home. Letting himself in, the now useless groceries in his arms, he found Noah watching cartoons in the living room, and he found Rachel in the kitchen, huddled over the radio, sipping her coffee.  
  
"Did you tell him?" he whispered.  
  
"No," she shook her head. "Should I?"  
  
Connor shrugged, and he poured coffee for himself. He sat in the chair opposite her. "Did the second tower collapse too?"  
  
"About three or four minutes ago. Who would do this, Da?"  
  
She had let the word slip. A sad smile crossed Connor's face. When he had first found her in World War Two Europe, he had taught her to call him "dad", teaching her specifically the Gaelic word he had called his father. But as she grew older, and he remained ageless, she had long called him Connor.  
  
"Da?" she repeated, looking to him, tears streaking down her cheeks. Connor knew she remembered the early childhood memories from before he found her. He shook his head, and reached across the table for her hand.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------  
  
In agreement, Connor and Rachel decided they would postpone the trip to the zoo. Noah was disappointed, but he cheered up, when Connor promised him he could see the monkey house when did they go.  
  
"But why can't we go today?" he asked.  
  
"Because some bad men did a bad thing," Rachel answered.  
  
"Like when I hit my baby sister?"  
  
"Kind of," nodded Rachel. "Remember when I took you to visit the two towers in Manhattan?"  
  
"Uh-huh. You said we to see your chevra."  
  
"Right, well, those someone caused a plane to crash into those towers. The towers collapsed, and all those people inside are now dead."  
  
"Even your chevra?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Noah scrunched his face, processing the information. "Can I go watch more cartoons now?"  
  
Rachel nodded, but she noticed he slinked to the television, where he normally ran. "His mother will be up with him tonight," she commented dryly to Connor, who cast an ironic smile. He poured them more coffee.  
  
---------------------------------------------------  
  
Ten in the morning, two more knocks sounded on the front door. Connor mumbled something about that being Amanda and Nick, and standing to get the door. Rachel moved to put on more coffee.  
  
"We have muffins left," Nick offered, pulling out a seat for Amanda before sitting himself. "I stopped in the bakery before coming home from work, and I apparently bought more than we could eat ourselves." He paused to accept the coffee, still in desperate need of the caffeine. "Help yourselves."  
  
"You'd think we were sitting Shiva," mumbled Rachel. "Noah?" she called. "Would you like a muffin?"  
  
"No," the little boy called. "Thank you," he added in afterthought.  
  
"We'll keep one for him, just in case," Connor decided, to which Rachel nodded.  
  
"Do we know after anyone else?" Rachel asked, several moments having had passed. Connor had stood, bringing the coffee pot to the table, knowing the need for the caffeine was needed, and he sat again now, the muffin before him untouched. "Fiona? Or Adam? Bella?"  
  
"I called Adam, assure him best I could Nick and I were okay. Assumed you two would be, as neither of you were in Manhattan." Amanda paused to sip her coffee. She had longer hair again, dyed a deep auburn, pulled back into a single French braid, and wore little make-up, along with an old shirt of Nick's and old jeans. She both felt and looked comfortable, unglamorous, and unsure of anything. "Course, he had yet to talk to Joe, or to Fiona." She paused again, a wide-eyed expression suddenly crossing her face. "You were both outside of Manhattan, right? I mean, you had to have been. After all, you are here, and not. . . there. . ."  
  
Connor nodded, and Rachel too nodded, mumbling something of being here when Connor had initially called with the news.  
  
"Good," she breathed in relief. "And, Bella?"  
  
"It doesn't look good for her, sweetie. It's Tuesday." Nick answered, his voice softer than usual, his eyes in a further expression than normal, for his exhaustion was obvious.  
  
"Fuck," Amanda swore, and Rachel hushed her, reminding her Noah was only in the next room, and that he was only five, and that last thing she needed, was for him to present to his parents his newfound word.  
  
"You've corrupted him enough," she chided teasingly.  
  
"Well, someone has to," the woman Immortal responded, but the sarcastic air of the words fell flat.  
  
For one more hour, the four friends sat around. Silence descended, with only the radio as any noise. Somewhere close to ten-thirty, Noah wandered in, complaining his cartoons had been cancelled, when in concern, Rachel asked, "So, what have you have you been watching, sweetheart?"  
  
"News, Savta. Those towers look big to fall."  
  
Rachel nodded, while trying to find someway to answer his unasked question, when the boy climbed into her lap, and reached for a muffin from the white bag. Connor smiled at him, pushing the bag closer.  
  
"Are you Connor?" Noah asked.  
  
"I am."  
  
"You very young. Savta said you old friend."  
  
The three Immortals stifled smiles, and Connor answered, "She meant we have known one another for a long time."  
  
"Oh." But the muffin had diverted his attention.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, at ten forty-five, Fiona called. Talking to everyone for a few minutes, she confirmed she was doing okay, just still shaken, and assured herself they too were fine. She didn't ask after Bella, and they did not say anything after her either.  
  
Some things between close friends are just left better unsaid.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
note: 'chevra' is a Hebrew word for 'friend'  
'Shiva' refers to the post-death mourning period in the Jewish faith. Typically friends gather at the house of the deceased's family to offer condolences and food. The word is derived from the Hebrew word 'Shavua' which translates to week. This period does last for seven days following the funeral/death. 


	14. Chapter Twelve: HalfLife

September 11, 2001, 10 AM, Seacouver, Washington  
  
Richard Kramer had not expected for anyone else to come in today. When he had first heard of the attacks in New York, he had called the school dean's office, only to hear a pre-recorded message that the campus would be closed today. The dean had been careful to note that the campus would re-open tomorrow, regular schedule. But Richard Kramer didn't care for that information; he just cared that no classes would be held today.  
  
But even as he heard the message, he made the daily ninety minute drive into work. He had paperwork to do, and he had phone calls to make. He could use the quiet. Besides, as his life stood, he was only half-alive, and dared not dwell on the real situations of life.  
  
He allowed himself one sigh. This was as he stepped into the main office of the philosophy/classics department, to flip on a few light switches, and check his mail. He had only one letter, and that too was from the dean's office, stating the offices were closed. He wondered who had placed these in the boxes, and when they had done so. Casting the room into darkness again, he walked from the main office to his own office, and he collapsed in the chair behind his desk.  
  
He wanted to call his children. He wanted to verify they were alive. But he couldn't. Not as his life stood.  
  
He knew his daughter had lived in Seattle, staying with her mother's sister, and attending a public high school in Seattle. Had even maintained a successful three year long distance relationship with her boyfriend, Ryan Ollman, before they broke it off in her senior year of high school, both agreeing they no longer wanted the long absences. For a few years there, he had been able to contact her, through the secrecy the shadow death allowed. But now, as she attended college in North Carolina, he had not heard from her in many years.  
  
His son, he knew, had stayed with her mother. But after his long-time girlfriend had died from cancer two years ago, he had dropped out of school, (he had been a college freshman at the time), and turned instead to his photography full-time. From what he had been able to gleam from the news, his son was gaining success, having only recently landed a full time job with Time, moving permanently to New York.  
  
To Staten Island. And, there he lived, with his new girlfriend, and newborn son. Named for him. Named Richard, but called Ricky.  
  
But he was Richard Kramer, nee Rick Phillips, and he was still alive. Almost. He was not Immortal, but he was no longer strictly Mortal either.  
  
His daughter was now nineteen, almost twenty. His son was now twenty-one, almost twenty-two. Sixteen, almost seventeen years ago, he had left his three-year-old son, young wife and infant daughter to chase a ghost, a dream. For years, he had studied the paranormal. For years, he had chased the paranormal, convinced that if he looker harder enough, he would find the doorway between the two worlds. That night when he had left, he had found a breakthrough, but he had died finding it.  
  
When the authorities had come, and when they had notified his wife, it had appeared that he died in the car crash. But in truth, some force, something had ripped his soul from his body before the car had had a chance to crash.  
  
Only later, after the story had faded into news oblivion, had the same force recovered his body, and returned to it his soul. But since, he had been forced to lead a cursed half-life, living as an interloper, neither there nor there. He had changed his surname to escape the files. He had dyed his brown hair to black, and ordered special non-prescription colored contacts changing his green eyes to brown, and wore non-prescription glasses. Through processes only allowed in the movies, he permanently removed his fingerprints, and found the last job he had wanted: a college professor.  
  
He had needed to convince his family he was dead, and he had. But he had nearly convinced himself in the process.  
  
Richard Kramer frowned once, and picked his head from the elbow crook. He had come to do work, and work he would do. His son lived on Staten Island. He would be safe. He had to be safe. Fates would have informed him otherwise.  
  
-------------------------------------------------------  
  
Hour later, and less than half the paperwork completed, Richard Kramer threw the pen across the room in exasperation. He could not do this. He needed to know. Something in him needed to know. Swallowing the last of his pride, he dialed the only number he swore he never would.  
  
"Ciao, Fate Hotline."  
  
"Yes, I need to speak to Whisp. Please, it's urgent." He did not recognize his own voice.  
  
"One moment, please." Then, several seconds later, another voice answered, "Rick?"  
  
"Hello, Whisp. Been a long time. How are you?"  
  
"Oh, you know, no change here. Life is full of thrills when you are nothing more than light and demon. But you, how are you?"  
  
"I'm. . . fine. That's partly why I am calling."  
  
"I see. What did you need?"  
  
"My son. I need to know if my son is alive."  
  
A long pause. Richard squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, wishing suddenly he could take the words back, but it was too late. The damage was already done.  
  
"I'm going to surprise you, Rick. I'm going to tell you. Your son is fine, as is his girlfriend and his child. I'll even tell you that your daughter is fine too."  
  
"Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you, gods and fate."  
  
"But I need something from you as well, Rick. Nothing is ever free these days, especially when it comes to fate."  
  
"No, of course not," mumbled Richard. "What do you need?" he added louder, but he immediately regretted those words too.  
  
"I hear you have been letting your assigned duties go. Something we cannot allow. Surely you understand."  
  
"So, what do you want?"  
  
"I want what you promised. Really very simple."  
  
Richard swallowed, and then quickly, he frowned again. He knew this phone call would be a bad idea. For when they had returned his soul to his body, they had extracted a promise from him. A cost for the job, they had claimed. He would continue his life-long work, he would continue his studies and search for the paranormal, but he would do it to their rules, and listen to their shots.  
  
"We do not accept failure, Rick," Whisp continued, "but we do give second chances. However, we only give them once. Fail again, and this time we will kill you permanently."  
  
"Yes, yes, I understand." Again, he did not recognize his own voice.  
  
"For close to three decades now, we have been tracking paranormal activity in the Seattle area. Unfortunately, we have not determined just what it is."  
  
"Surely though you have Watchers deployed here?"  
  
"We have two sets of Watchers deployed across the world. Three, should you count the renegades. Four, should you count the renegade renegades. One such set follows the darker underworlds of the Demons, the Vampires, and the Slayers. Our second such set follows the Immortals."  
  
"Would they not report the collected information?"  
  
"Oh they do report. Frequently. But even the best-kept secrets have holes in the systems. You have two Immortals and one Watcher working under you, Rick, as well as one former Watcher. I need you to steal everything from them you can."  
  
"But why? I don't understand."  
  
"Politics. Politics. This attack today was no coincidence. There is an underlying to it. Something too familiar underneath the surface."  
  
"Doesn't that diminish the high running emotions that same attack caused? To say such a thing?"  
  
"We have deployed contacts across the globe," continued Whisp, talking as if Richard had not. "We hope between everyone, we will find something. After all-"  
  
"Very well and all, but WHAT IN THE GODS NAMES DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ME?"  
  
A short, harsh sound only to be described as laughter sounded through the phone. "Simple. Track down what we seek, and kill it. I don't care how. But we will have this done."  
  
"Track what down exactly?"  
  
"You will know." Another long pause. "Oh, and Rick, one more thing. . ."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I mentioned to you that we deployed Watchers across the globe. Don't think I mentioned that your daughter and her best friend were two of them, did I?"  
  
Richard swore into the phone, only to have the dial tone greet him. For several seconds he stared into the receiver, before he flung it across the room, ripping the phone and phone jack from the wall. Calling them had been a bad idea. He had no clue as to what they had expected of them, and they were blackmailing him into doing it. He sighed, at least now he knew: both his children were alive and well. Even his son, especially his son. If what the Whisp had spoken were true, he would hope for his son to keep his daughter safe.  
  
Richard Kramer sighed. He would be getting very little work done now. Leaving a quickly penned note taped to the door that his phone was broken, he locked the door behind him, and sped away, first on foot to his car, then in his car. He had other work to do. 


	15. Chapter Thirteen: Loss Wept Together

September 11, 2001, 1 PM (to about 11 PM), Seacouver, Washington  
  
"So, how many did we lose?" Methos asked quietly. Having heard the university was closed, and all classes cancelled, today, he had eventually headed to Joe's Bar, if anything so he could have the company. He had nursed the same beer since he got there, playing more with the beer bottle than drinking the actual beer, an action Joe Dawson thought unusual, even as he asked nothing about it.  
  
"Upwards of about hundred researchers. Maybe more, maybe less," answered Joe. He sighed, moving to wipe down the bar counter. "Less field observers." He paused in his cleaning to frown. "However many we did lose, we lost too many."  
  
"Any news from your guys?"  
  
"I didn't know I had guys." Joe Dawson shrugged, smiling slightly. "But no, haven't heard anything from my guys. Know Day is ok, as he's following Mac in Europe somewhere. Wells is here." He paused again. "We had our North American office in there, Adam."  
  
And, briefly, he wished himself to truly be Adam Pierson. At five thousand years old, he had seen civilizations crumble, only to rise again; he had seen structures -built of stone, brick, glass, and clay -fall before in attack; he had watched Europe destroy itself from within --twice.  
  
But Adam Pierson had never seen anything. Adam Pierson was slightly eccentric, slightly clumsy, slightly bumbling at times. He was too lanky for his body, and slightly too naïve for his mind. Duncan MacLeod had once told him, that while Methos had initially intrigued him, the guise of Adam Pierson had been the sealer of the deal.  
  
"Yes, I know," sighed Methos. He frowned, and looked to his beer, perhaps he hoped to find the answers.  
  
But he was wholly Adam Pierson. He was Methos. Adam Pierson did not officially exist. He was just that. . . a guise, a disguise to protect his true identity, his true nature. But Adam Pierson had never seen anything, had only been born after the Second World War, and had done very little on the political front during Vietnam. He knew nothing, or at least, very little.  
  
But Methos knew too much; Methos had seen too much. He understood too well. And, he understood how to dull the shock and the pain.  
  
"Any guesses as to who is behind this?" he added. His voice sounded blank.  
  
"No, but I have a feeling, that this is only a beginning of a long scheme."  
  
"Great. Suppose now would be a good time to look into that Bermudan property I bought fifty, sixty years ago."  
  
"Bermuda?"  
  
"Fine," amended Methos, "Sweden. That's still neutral, right?"  
  
"Still is," agreed Joe, frowning. He reached over to the far side of the counter to turn the radio back to full volume again, hoping he might catch more updates. He preferred the voice to the images, as those images were already burned into his mind.  
  
Methos simply grunted non-committaly in response. He swirled the beer a few times, keeping an ear to the radio, his thoughts on Duncan MacLeod. For some reason, for what he did not quite know, he wanted to know Duncan was alive, and well, and what he thought of the situation. But Duncan MacLeod was in Scotland, and Methos couldn't ask.  
  
"Heard anything as to where the new headquarters might be?" asked Methos after several moments. He had sipped more of the beer, and now he swirled it again. He doubted Joe would know anything, especially this soon, but he talked to fill the silence, afraid to hear the quiet.  
  
"No." He paused, the door chimes rang, signaling an arrival, and he noticed Methos sit straighter. "I don't need more fighting today," he mouthed. "They want you, you take it outside." But Methos only saluted his silent agreement, and Joe frowned his disapproval.  
  
But Methos relaxed again, when he saw Fiona step inside, an uneasy smile across her face, her hand ready to pull her sword. "Is that any way to greet your oldest friend?" he asked.  
  
"Who?" she scoffed. She took the stool next to his, fanning her green coat over the leather. "Hey, Joe."  
  
"Hello, Fiona. Get you something?"  
  
"Same I had last night, please? No ice," she added.  
  
"Wouldn't dream of putting ice in there," he smiled. "So, you ok?"  
  
"Ok covers it," she shrugged. "The New Yorkers send their regards. To both of you."  
  
Methos grunted, to which Fiona turned to him, to ask, "Come again?"  
  
"Nothing," he shook his head. "Never mind."  
  
Fiona nodded. Joe set the drink before her, and she dragged a couple bills from her wallet, but Joe shook his head. "Don't worry about. On the house today."  
  
"Thanks, Joe," she smiled. It was her first real smile of the day.  
  
---------------------------------------------  
  
Fiona spent four hours in the bar. She added little to the conversation, but would occasionally hear Methos quip a response to the news broadcasts, and somewhere around three-thirty, Joe received a call from a higher Watcher, in which he cast Methos a significant look, excused his leave, and took the call in the office.  
  
"Hope it's good news," commented Fiona. Her tone was very dry.  
  
"Politics," responded Methos. "Very status quo." He finished his beer, and he helped himself to another from behind the counter. But Fiona only frowned, and nodded.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Joe returned. From his expression, Methos (and Fiona) guessed the phone call was not good. Joe passed Methos a look to say he would explain later. This time, Methos nodded. At ten to four, Mike Ross called, to say he and Darcy had re-located back to her apartment to watch the news. He added they would both be in about five, but Joe told them not to bother, to just be back into work tomorrow.  
  
At five exactly, Fiona's cell phone rang. She frowned, but still, she answered. It was Paul. ".what?. no, of course not. I'm glad you did. no, would have called myself, but realized I didn't know if you still worked today, and I didn't know where to call. no, the university is closed. tomorrow would be better. sure, tomorrow night. night."  
  
She did not mention to neither Joe Dawson or to Methos who Paul was, but from the glances Methos shot in her direction, she knew he knew. She stared back, and she turned away first. She threw the last of her drink down her throat (her second drink), and she said her farewells, ready to return home.  
  
Marius sat on her couch. He watched the news, and he claimed he waited for her. He had only been there for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. Fiona frowned; she was slightly miffed he did not call her cell phone, as she expected him to be more worried than he seemed to be.  
  
---------------------------------------  
  
"Reminds me of the barricade," Marius mumbled.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Today. This tragedy. Reminds me of the barricades, and when they fell."  
  
They wrapped themselves in blankets and sheets, their legs entangled. His arm looped around her waist, and she rested her head against his shoulder.  
  
"Do you regret?"  
  
"Regret.?"  
  
"Living. Surviving the barricades. . . when your friends did not?"  
  
"Empty chairs at empty tables," he mumbled again.  
  
"What?"  
  
"From a note I wrote to my friends afterwards. 'Oh, my friends, my friends please forgive me, that I am here and you are gone. Empty chairs at empty tables, for my friends, are all dead and gone. . .' I hated myself for along time, but eventually you begin to cope again, and to live again. I don't know if the pain ever goes way." Marius paused, and he tightened his hold on her. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"Bella was in there. Every Tuesday, she meets her husband, James, for breakfast. Neither made it. Neither would make it. Both were. . . Mortal." She spoke the last word like poison.  
  
"Oh, Fiona. . . I am so sorry. Do you want me to. . .?"  
  
"No," she shook her head. "No."  
  
And, Marius nodded. He bent to kiss her at the temple, and she buried her face in bare chest to cry. Sleep was a long time coming. 


	16. Chapter Fourteen: AfterMath

September 12, 2001, 6 AM (to about 8 PM), Seacouver, Washington  
  
The next morning, Fiona awoke to find herself alone in bed. For several seconds, she was confused, thinking she was in New York. But when she remembered, she remembered everything. She was not in New York; she was in Seacouver, in Washington State, and yesterday two planes had crashed into the World Trade Center. And, Bella.  
  
She sighed, and she shook her head. She willed the tears to not come. She had had her cry time last night, Marius holding her in his arms. But Bella was her friend, like a mother to her. Maybe she had attached herself too tightly, but she did not know her mother. Immortals never did.  
  
In the darkness, she squinted. Five after six, the clock read. She was awake, figured she might as well run. She climbed from bed, she exchanged her boxer shorts and tank top for a pair of old track pants, and she pulled a New York University sweatshirt over her white tank. She tied her running shoes, and she secured her hair firmly in a low ponytail. On her bedroom floor, she stretched first her arms, her back, her shoulders, and her legs. When she grabbed her keys from the kitchen counter, she found a note written hastily.  
  
"F, Morning. Had some meetings rescheduled to this afternoon, and I have paperwork to do before. Sorry I'm not here to see you wake. Smile, please. For me? I'll call you later. I love you. M."  
  
Fiona read the note again, and again, before she crumpled the paper in her hand, and she tossed it into the trash. She locked the door behind her, tiptoed down the stairs, and she ran to the park. She ran laps under the trees, over the sidewalk pavement, pass dog owners, pigeons, other birds, homeless men sleeping on benches; she ran laps until she thought she would collapse; only then, did she run back to her apartment to shower, dress, and pretend life was normal again.  
  
---------------------------------  
  
"Morning, Rebecca," Fiona greeted. She poked her head inside the department's office. She held the coffee in her left hand, which she had bought on the drive in to work. "Any messages this morning?"  
  
"None today," the secretary answered. She smiled. She still wore her light jacket over her clothes, slightly chilled from the autumnal winds. She always wore long sleeves in this office. Did well to hide the small tattoo on the inside of her left wrist. "How are you?"  
  
"Surviving. Only thing to do, I guess."  
  
"Seems that way. Well, I'm here. If you need to talk."  
  
"Thanks," Fiona smiled. "Really, thanks."  
  
Rebecca Wells waved; she smiled. She had probably just followed Joe Dawson's footsteps, probably just broken every rule in the book. She sighed, and she returned to her paperwork. She didn't recognize the bottom- most document.  
  
But, contrary to Rebecca's opinion, Fiona did not head straight to her office. Instead, she knocked lightly on the door, the plaque reading 'Adam Pierson, Ph.D." She heard a voice answer, "Come in," and she pushed open the door. She closed it again behind her. "Lost, little girl?" he asked. He raised one eyebrow; the pen paused in his hand.  
  
"No," she shook her head. "Mind if I sit?" He gestured his hand to the chair opposite his desk. She perched herself, dropping her things on the floor at her feet. "Duncan MacLeod, when did he leave?"  
  
Methos frowned. Whatever he had expected her to ask, this was definitely not it. He shrugged. "Took off about six, maybe seven or eight months ago."  
  
"Amanda mentioned to me, for once, you were the one to stay."  
  
"Glad to know she has so much faith in me." His scowl deepened.  
  
"Yesterday, I got her to talk a little bit about Duncan. Complicated relationship there." She paused, and she bit her lip. "You knew I had married Aristotle, right?"  
  
"I think so. Why?"  
  
"I met him after. . . I never told him, but I think, somehow, he knew. Sometimes, I would hear him and Plato talking, late at night, when Plato taught him. I knew. . . Plato would sometimes talk about you, to Aristotle."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yes. Spoke highly about you. He loved you. Perhaps too much so. He was heart-broken when he first discovered you had gone. He never quite returned to himself after. He had lost too much: three and half years, and he had lost his mentor, and he had lost his lover. I think he may have found something again in Aristotle, but I married him, and, I think he knew then, first realized just what my Immortality, and consequently, what his mortality meant. You, I, we would live forever, but he would die." She paused again, to face Methos again. "He would die."  
  
"Fiona," Methos spoke gently, "why are you telling me this? I mean, why now?"  
  
"I lost a dear friend yesterday, Methos. But I also lost my parent again. You and I, Methos, we are two of a kind. I suppose, I don't want to lose you too."  
  
"So, you forgive me? Officially?"  
  
"Seems that way," she smiled. "I want your friendship again, Methos."  
  
"Never lost it," he returned the smile, "not officially, anyhow. Now that that is settled, get out. I have work to do, and you have work to do. After all," he winked at her, "this is work."  
  
"Funny," she teased, "I think I missed that memo."  
  
---------------------------------------  
  
Fiona frowned, and she looked to the clock. Almost six. In her classes, she had disregarded her official lesson plans, to instead approach yesterday's events from a philosophical point of view, and she had noticed most of her student seemed to have appreciated it. Although, the conversation had been tentative at first, but classes' end, the students had wished for more time, but she had shook her head, apologizing for the double homework assigned, promising them somewhat regretfully, that next class would return to the normal syllabus.  
  
She stopped in her work, to gather her papers, and her coat. She had agreed to meet Paul for dinner, at the same Italian restaurant they had gone to before. They had a seven reservation. She pulled her long hair from between the coat and her coral cowl-necked sweater, when the knock sounded hesitantly on her door. "Come in," she called. She touched the pocket where she hid her sword, reassuring herself, even though she knew the presence was not an Immortal one.  
  
"Professor Kessler?" asked the hesitant response. A young girl Fiona recognized from her more advanced class. "I'm in the Plato class, and I-"  
  
"Of course," Fiona smiled. Serena, right? Come in. Here kind of late, aren't you?"  
  
"Ren, please. I have class until five-thirty." She shrugged. "Umm. . . I just wanted to let you know, I won't be in class on Thursday. And. . ."  
  
"I understand. Don't worry. Come talk to me whenever you get back, and I'll help you make-up the work. Fair?"  
  
"Yes, thank you."  
  
Ren closed the door behind her, and Fiona sighed. Looking to the clock again, she swore lightly under her breath, quickly gathered her things. She locked the office door behind her.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Paul waited for her, when she arrived at the restaurant. She smiled at him, her smile only slightly thinner than it normally was, and unsure whether she should shake his hand or kissed him, she hugged him instead. She could tell he was only slightly surprised.  
  
They ordered the same meals they had last time: Fiona, the eggplant parmesan, and Paul, the veal. This time, he knew not to offer her a taste.  
  
"I realized, after you called me, I don't think you ever told me your last name."  
  
"No? Well, Glaser."  
  
Fiona cocked her head. "German-Jewish?"  
  
"Yes, non-practicing, though. But, how'd you know?" he smiled, but his smile too was slightly thinner. "No, no, don't tell me. I think I'd rather not know. Too many skeletons probably."  
  
"Aren't I a little young to have skeletons?" she teased. Even though she knew she, in fact, had too many to name.  
  
"Always the young ones you need to watch. The young, and the quiet ones."  
  
Fiona smiled. Across the table, she reached for Paul's hand. He linked his fingers with hers, and they held hands until the waitress came with dinner. 


	17. Interlude II

Author's Notes: The Highland Haunted Tour is the creation of SouthernChickie. I borrowed it with her permission. The tour guide's only direct quote, is a direct quote from the story the tour originally appeared in.  
  
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September 13, 2001, Glenfinnan, Scotland  
  
Rachel MacLeod regarded Duncan in silence. It was late morning. Alec Callaghan had already left for the day, and Duncan still sat at the kitchen table, dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a ratty tee. His hair -now long again, even though he had chopped it off before leaving Seacouver several months earlier- was loose around his shoulders. The Highlander hunched over his coffee mug and uneaten breakfast, his complexion pasty, and his hands clenched around the mug.  
  
After she had met him in his hotel room a week before, upon hearing Duncan's story, she had first cursed him, then invited him to stay at her place while he visited Scotland. She assured him that Alec would not mind. But now, she wondered if this was the right decision. Duncan had hardly spoken since arriving there, and he barely left the house. He had eaten hardly anything, and he had not showered in almost four days. It had only got worse since they had heard on the International news the events of two days prior.  
  
"Duncan," Rachel interrupted quietly. She noticed he looked up, and she saw his eyes flinch briefly over her mug of coffee, but he didn't answer. "You cannot stay like this."  
  
"Says who?" he spoke quietly. He swished the coffee in his mug. "I'm in mourning."  
  
"Still?" Her voice held only remorse, an understanding, but also an aloofment. "For who? Or, for what?"  
  
"This." Duncan gestured to outside. "For what I left behind. For those I have lost."  
  
"Duncan-"  
  
"Have I ever told you about Rachel Eisenstein? She's Connor's daughter. Married a man by the name of Brian Eisenstein. Married for thirty years when he passed away. She's Jewish. They work in customs, the Jews. Mourn for a week; remember for a year. I haven't yet had a year, Rachel."  
  
"You're not Jewish."  
  
"A minor technicality," Duncan differed. "I wish I could call him."  
  
"Adam?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Rachel frowned into her coffee. Since his truth-fest a week before, she had failed in her attempts to get Duncan to reveal more information. She knew he was eating little, and that he slept less. And, she knew he had spent a night in Donner Woods his first night here; she knew he had crissed- crossed the globe since first leaving Seacouver last January. She knew that he had left his friends behind, that he had left his lover behind. She sighed. She knew he was Immortal.  
  
"Does this have to with Richie?" she asked. Her voice was still quiet.  
  
Duncan looked up. His eyes looked wild. Briefly, he caught her straight gaze, and briefly, he felt ashamed of what he allowed to happen to himself since leaving. He had not even felt the rain. . . But, no, he shook his head, and he looked back down. "Partly," he answered. "I almost took his head."  
  
"But you didn't."  
  
"Explain that to him."  
  
"That is not my place, Duncan. But it is yours."  
  
"I can't go back, Rachel. Not yet. Still too soon."  
  
"Waiting for the year?" she mumbled under breath. Outwardly, she frowned. "Come outside, at least? I have the day off. We could do something. . . together. . ."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"We could do the Highland Haunted Tour. Features you and Connor MacLeod. You'd probably find it to be amusing."  
  
She knew about Connor MacLeod too. In his tale, Duncan had mentioned the elder kinsman, who had been his mentor and his friend.  
  
"That might be interesting."  
  
"Good. It's settled then. Only Duncan?" The Highlander looked up. "Go shower first. You're starting to smell." She thought she detected a hint of a smile on his face.  
  
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The tour began outside the Inn Rachel normally worked in. Duncan had showered, and he had also shaved. His clothes were slightly wrinkled, but Rachel supposed that was due to more of he living out of a suitcase for the majority of the past eight months, and not his own doing. He wore his hair tied back, in a loose half-ponytail, and he mentioned he thought he was due again for a haircut soon.  
  
Three older couples and three or four teenagers already waited for the tour to start. "Tourists," Rachel whispered aside to Duncan. He simply nodded his agreement.  
  
The tour guide appeared several minutes later, an older man Rachel knew. He looked to her in surprise, looking like he wanted to say something to her, but didn't. She shrugged. Instead, the tour guide (who introduced himself as Ian), explained the tour would take about ninety minutes, and to please follow him.  
  
By the time, the group reached the place where Duncan MacLeod was supposedly killed, the real Duncan MacLeod was already smiling.  
  
"This is where the most sightings take place," the tour guide explained. "This is also where Duncan MacLeod was killed. In 1629, in a clan war. There are also repots of his ghost trying to kill those who unwittingly wonder onto his lands in wearing unfriendly colors. And, he has also been known to warn passers by of rival clansmen hiding around the bend."  
  
"Let's get out of here," Duncan whispered to Rachel. "I don't how much more this I can take."  
  
Rachel nodded. She bit back her own laughter. She mouthed a silent 'thank you' to Ian before she followed Duncan strides down the hills again. Half- hour later, they found themselves in the bar, where they ordered some lunch.  
  
"That bad?" she laughed. She referred, of course, to the tour.  
  
"Worse," he countered. "For one, Duncan died in 1627. And, it had to have been five miles north of here."  
  
"Well, you'll have to forgive an old village its mistakes. Neither men left too many clues to their after-death whereabouts."  
  
"And, that's another thing," he added. "Connor never stayed in an Inn. He built his own hut about thirty miles from here, and he married a young woman named Heather."  
  
Rachel bit back her laughter. "Again, you'll have to forgive us." She noticed the smile quirk at the corners of Duncan's mouth. "You did find it amusing then?"  
  
"I suppose so," he agreed. 


End file.
